


draw back your bow

by Traincat



Series: leave the gun on the table [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Brainwashing, Canon Typical Violence, Canon-Based AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 19:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1359661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Traincat/pseuds/Traincat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton goes home, gets in trouble, makes plans with an ex, looks like hell, totally doesn't adopt a dog and tries not to think about how he might never get Bucky Barnes back intact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	draw back your bow

**Author's Note:**

> this is one of those things where, when you finish the first fic, you're like, oh, I'm definitely going to write this sequel, and then you get distracted. And then you end up without a computer for six months. The usual. 
> 
> Thank you everyone for the incredible response to the first installment! This picks up immediately after "leave the gun on the table"'s penultimate scene, and covers some of the time between it and the epilogue. Also, this one has a dog. The next one will have a dog _and_ a sidekick. Also also, wow, this is so far removed from any one source of canon at this point, I threw like eight in a blender with a handful of backstory liberties (Jessica, why) and just went at it, aha /HANDS. 
> 
> Happy National Puppy Day! The alternate summary is: 20k of inept dog ownership, punctuated by makeouts and bad ideas.

Clint made a promise and said that everything would be alright. 

He knew better, but he wanted it to be true, so he promised. Bucky’s dark hair tickled his cheek, warm breath against his neck, and Clint scrunched his fingers in his hair and said it.

“Sure,” Bucky said in his rough voice, metal fingers curling in Clint’s shirt. 

“What?” Clint said, ducking his head low so he could whisper straight into Bucky’s ear. “You don’t believe me now?”

“Once a con, always a con,” Bucky said, and Clint’s throat ached when he laughed. He wondered how bad the bruises would be; he could still feel the Winter Soldier’s metal fingers around his neck. What the hell; just another badge of honor. 

Bucky’s flesh and blood fingers were shaking. The metal ones were steady as always. Clint closed his own hand over them and said, “Would I lie to you?”

Bucky didn’t reply. Probably because he knew the answer.

Clint rubbed his thumb over cold metal knuckles and together they sat silently and waited for SHIELD.

\---

It wasn’t the first time Clint had sat on the wrong side of a SHIELD interrogation table, or even the most uncomfortable. At first he was a little insulted with the newbie they sent in to deal with him, before he realized that everyone else had bigger fish to fry.

Bigger fish like the brainwashed assassin falling to pieces. Clint’s heart felt like a stone.

He couldn’t do Bucky any favors from inside an interrogation room, if he could do them at all. The smart thing to do would be to sit back and let the kid do his job and get the whole thing over with, but it felt like years since Clint had done the smart thing. So fifteen minutes later he had five escape options and a baby SHIELD agent who thought he was his own LMD and that the real Agent Barton was in Madripoor. The poor kid was talking about his grandmother.

“I was in Florida recently, it was nice,” Clint said. “Great weather.”

The door opened. Natasha stalked into the room. She jerked her thumb over her shoulder.

“Out,” she said to the baby agent. “Before he makes you give him your social security number.”

“I am not that mean,” Clint protested as the junior agent scurried away. “Why do you always have to scare off my new friends, Nat?”

Natasha didn’t say anything, just let the door shut behind her. She grabbed a chair and towed it over to Clint’s side of the table. One thing he’d always admired about Natasha was her grace under pressure, and the way her face betrayed nothing. Even when she turned it on him, he appreciated it.

“I want my lawyer,” he joked.

“The last time anyone saw your lawyer, she was wrecking Nebraska,” Natasha said, and Clint felt some of the tension slip from his shoulders. Not too mad to talk to him, then.

“That’s what I get for taking Bruce’s recommendation,” he said. “You still seeing Murdock? Can I have him?” Her face didn’t so much as twitch, so he sighed and said, “Nat, what was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, Clint,” she said, sitting down next to him. “Something smart.”

“He wasn’t good, Nat. How could I leave him by himself?” Clint said, hating the edge in his own voice. “He needed me.”

“He could’ve killed you,” she said, and her eyes fell none too subtly to the ring of finger-shaped bruises around his throat. 

“But he didn’t,” Clint said. “I’m here, he’s here. Everyone’s in one piece, more or less. They’re not going to let me see him, huh?”

“No,” Natasha said, and then relenting, she added, “Not yet, at least.”

“But you’ve seen him,” Clint pressed.

“Briefly,” she admitted. Her mouth was a thin, solemn line. “Clint, I need you to understand. It’s not always the same.”

“He’s fighting,” Clint said, turning to face her. He reached for her hand. “You can’t write him off when he’s still in the ring.”

Natasha flipped her hand over, wrapping her fingers around Clint’s broad palm.

“Not everything can be fixed,” she said. “I need you to understand that. It’s different. He’s not me.”

“Somehow I managed to figure that one out,” he said. “Probably around the time I got him naked.”

“Clint,” Natasha said in a warning tone, squeezing his hand just shy of painfully tight. “I need you to know. I need to hear you say you know.”

“I know,” Clint said, and brushed his fingers over his bruises. It was half-hearted, though, because all he could think about was Bucky’s face in the cold Latverian light and the way he laughed at Clint’s jokes. Some bundle of old programming couldn’t beat all of that. But then, like a whisper, he felt the phantom touch of a staff at his chest. 

His blood ran cold. His fingers tightened around Natasha’s.

“Okay,” he said, swallowing his fear down. He met her eyes. “I get it. So. I get to see him, when?”

Natasha snorted, dropping her head forward; Clint angled his shoulder so her forehead rested against it, pressed his own cheek to her hair. Their hands swung easily between them. 

“You’re still my favorite Russian assassin,” he said, and she tilted her head so she could raise her eyebrows at him. 

“Sure I am,” she said. “Fury wants your report on his desk by the morning. Other than that, you’re done here.”

“What, just like that?” Clint asked, mildly surprised. Bigger fish to fry, he thought again, with the same bitterness. He wished they’d focus on him instead, spare Bucky the -- well, just spare him. He wished he could go back in time, make it so everything had spared Bucky. 

"The big kids might've kicked up a fuss." Natasha squeezed his fingers, half a warning: _don’t cause trouble_.

If Clint never caused trouble then he’d have kept his mouth shut and let Jacques Duquesne turn him into a criminal. Then Natasha wouldn’t be with SHIELD. Then Bucky -- a hundred different things could have happened to Bucky. Clint didn’t like any of them. 

“Write my report for me?” he said as Natasha got up, using their linked hands to pull him out of his seat. “I’ll give you my dessert for a week.”

“With talk like that, how’d you ever wind up in trouble in the first place?” she asked.

\---

Clint got food, but only because Natasha made him. He wasn’t hungry.

He was picking at a sandwich when a shadow fell across him, and he looked up to find Jessica Drew staring at him.

“Hey?” he said. The last time he’d talked to Jessica, she’d thrown a drink in his face. She was carrying a water bottle, so there was a good chance he was in for a repeat. It was really all his day needed. 

“I heard what happened,” Jessica said, brow creased like she was trying to figure out a mystery. 

“Shit,” Clint said. “That was fast.” 

Jessica opened her mouth, but whatever she was going to say was lost when the comm system went off, calling doctors and a name Clint recognized as SHIELD’s house telepath. He was on his feet before he knew it. 

“Clint,” Natasha said in a warning tone when he reached Bucky’s room. 

“Where is he?” he asked. “What’s wrong?” 

When she didn’t answer immediately he tried to shoulder past, and she grabbed him by the arm and said, “Stop it.” 

Clint’s heart was in his throat. Inside the room he could see motion, and he could hear Bucky’s hoarse voice, but there were people in his way, blocking his view, and Natasha wouldn’t let go of his arm. 

“You’re not alone with him anymore,” Natasha said in an undertone, squeezing his arm just shy of too hard. “It’s not your job.”

People were moving now and Clint could see Steve, his face white as a sheet, holding Bucky down by the shoulders. Bucky was snarling at him, cold-eyed the way he’d been right before he’d grabbed Clint by the throat back in their motel room, only hours ago. 

Bucky went limp, and Steve’s face relaxed for a split second before the metal arm came up, shoving him back. Instantly there were three more SHIELD agents on him. 

“There’s nothing for you to do,” Natasha said. Her face was grim, and it was a look Clint knew well: she wouldn’t be moved. Still, when she tried to draw him back, he set his heels.

“I can’t,” he said. He’d promised Bucky that he would be alright, and now here they were, Bucky distant and strange and baring his teeth at the SHIELD agents holding him down. Clint’s heart ached. “I promised him.”

Natasha tightened her grip and Clint let himself lean into her, just a little.

\---

Eight straight hours of watching Bucky snarl, wild-eyed, in Russian and snap and spit at every SHIELD agent who so much as passed him by was all it took for Clint to give up the ghost and pack it up for a while.

“You look terrible,” Natasha told him. She looked fine, of course, but there was something flinty in her eyes. She remained the only person Bucky didn’t flat-out attempt to murder on first glance. “You should go home.”

Clint tipped his head back, rubbing at his eyes. “I don’t want to deal with Stark,” he said. He didn’t want to deal with anyone, except Bucky. The real Bucky, not the cold living weapon SHIELD held captive.

But he was tired, five minutes away from crashing. He would’ve taken a cardboard box.

“So don’t go back to the tower,” Natasha said. 

Clint blinked. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because you’re an idiot,” Natasha said fondly.

\--

Clint’s other home was an apartment on the third floor of a rundown building. All the Avengers had backups – Steve had his place in Red Hook, and Bruce had some zen hideout upstate. Thor had Asgard. Tony probably had an island somewhere. Natasha had a dozen different places scattered all over, and Clint felt honored to know about three of them. 

He hadn’t been to his second home in a while, but two minutes in the stairwell it struck him how much quieter it was than in the tower, let alone at SHIELD. 

Nobody was shouting in Russian. It was beautiful.

(Then, of course, he felt like a jackass, because it wasn’t Bucky’s _fault_.)

Then he got to his floor and found out that, actually, somebody was _still_ shouting in Russian. 

“Figures,” he said. 

The shouting was coming from the apartment at the end of the hall. There were two schlubs in tracksuits standing outside with a mangy-looking dog at their feet. Clint was lucky enough to own the apartment just to the left of them. 

“Gentlemen,” he said, fishing out his keys. The dog cocked its head, giving him the big sad eyes. “Dog.”

The dog panted at him. The tracksuit schlubs, thankfully, did not. 

Nobody but the dog so much as glanced at him, so Clint just unlocked the door and stepped inside. Inside was kind of a wreck. It was a good-sized apartment, but it had been ages since he’d spent any time in it, and it showed. Still, there was a couch and a TV and it wasn’t SHIELD, which was all Clint wanted. 

Except for the yelling, anyway. 

He kicked off his boots, then aimed one at the wall. It hit dead center and then he fell face first onto the couch.

\---

_Bucky’s metal fingers were cool against his skin, a sharp contrast to the rest of him. Clint ran appreciative hands down and then back up Bucky’s sides, thumbs counting ribs, careful to avoid the scarred seam where flesh met metal because it made Bucky squirm and not in the fun way._

 _“C’mon, c’mon,” Bucky urged him, laughing a little in between bitten off gasps, and he was the hottest thing Clint had ever had under his hands. He leaned up and licked a stripe across Bucky’s skin, tasting sweat. Bucky’s sharp laughter lit him up from the inside out._

_“Clinton Francis Barton, if you don’t,” Bucky started, only to cut off with a groan as Clint moved under him, hands tight around Bucky’s hips. He pictured, for one brief moment, leaving behind fingerprint shaped bruises, pictured them underneath Bucky’s dark uniform pants._

_Suddenly Bucky fell forward, gasping, just barely bracing himself on his hands._

_“Too much for you?” Clint asked, unable to help the grin that curled at his mouth. When he got no answer he squeezed Bucky’s sides, trying to ignore a sharp spike of worry. “Hey, gorgeous. Buck? Say something?”_

_He brought one hand up to Bucky’s face and was surprised when it came away sticky and wet. He pulled his hand back to find it covered in blood. Alarmed, he grabbed Bucky by the biceps and forced him up, feeling sick at the way Bucky’s head lolled to the side, at his suddenly shaggy-long hair and the blood that poured from his face, from his chest, from the mangled metal arm --_

Clint woke with a shout, half-off the couch. He lay there for a long moment, just breathing, while the details of the dream slipped from between his fingers.

“Fuck,” he said, feeling slimy. “Fuck.”

It was just past sunrise, and blissfully quiet. He guessed the boot against the wall had gotten the message across. 

There was a six pack of beer in the fridge. Clint silently thanked himself, whenever he’d last been here. Before Bucky, he thought. Last time he’d been here Bucky Barnes had just been a name from Captain America’s past, and now…

Now, Clint had a headache and a hole in his chest as wide as the Grand Canyon. 

He grabbed his breakfast, boots and his jacket and left the apartment. 

The dog was still in the hall, looking even sadder than before with his head on his paws. He perked up when he saw Clint, looking up hopefully – oh, right, he had toast in his hand. 

The door behind the dog was cracked open; through it Clint could just barely hear a muttered argument. The dog was panting happily now, giving him the big sad eyes.

“I’m a sucker,” he said to himself, getting down on one knee and holding out his breakfast. The dog sniffed briefly at his hand and then inhaled his breakfast. He looked up at Clint, letting out a happy whine, and then licked a stripe up his palm. 

Clint couldn’t help the grin. He reached out to scratch the dog behind the ears. 

There were footsteps in the hall. “Cute dog.” 

“Hey, bro,” a heavily accented voice said, and Clint glanced up into a face that was about 300% mustache. “Not your dog.”

He gave the dog one last pat on the head before straightening up. 

“Yeah, well,” he said. “Try not to let him starve, at least.”

\---

Bucky was out cold when he got back to SHIELD. Clint was thankful for small mercies.

The security goons at the door wouldn’t let him in the room, but there was a window and nobody stopped him when he leaned forward and pressed his forehead against the cool glass, arms crossed over his chest. Bucky’s face was turned away from him, but the rise and fall of his chest was peaceful. The metal arm was cuffed to the bed in three places. 

Steve was sitting in a chair next to his bedside, reading. He glanced up after a second and his eyes met Clint’s -- and then before Clint knew it, Steve was opening the door and stepping out into the hallway with him. 

He looked like he’d been hit by a bus -- which, granted, was pretty much how Clint felt, so at least they had that in common. 

“He’s asleep,” Steve told Clint, like he couldn’t see that for himself. The corner of his mouth was pulled down. So, drugged. Not like Clint expected anything less. He didn’t like it, but it was an old, stale kind of bitterness. 

“Can I see him?” Clint asked, well aware that he could force his way past a couple of security guys, no problem, but if Captain America decided to bar the door then that was a different story. He and Steve had never had any problems, but granted that was before he’d run off with Captain America’s best friend. 

Steve’s face softened. He stood back from the door, gestured an _at ease, soldier_ when one of the guards balked.

“He was asking about you,” he said as Clint shouldered his way past. “Wanted to know how much trouble you were in.”

“Nothing I can’t get myself out of,” Clint said, which was probably a lie.

He stood by the bed, looking down at the restraints that kept the metal arm locked down tight. His fingers itched to brush Bucky’s hair back from his forehead, like he’d done in Colorado.

Clint was used to falling hard, and to falling hard for hard luck cases. It shouldn’t have felt so raw this time, but it did, like someone had dragged him through five rounds and he’d gone down hard in every single one. 

The first time he’d seen Bucky had been in a SHIELD medical room. He felt like they’d come full circle, worse for the wear.

Motion from the bed drew his eye; Bucky shifted towards him, eyes blinking open. For a second he looked at Clint the way he had in that motel room in Colorado, cold and unreadable. Then his face softened and he was Bucky again, same as before.

“Hey,” he said muzzily. He tried to reach for Clint, but he used the metal arm and frowned when it wouldn’t budge. “I got some complaints about the hospitality in this place.”

“I’ll bet,” Clint said. “How’re you feeling?”

“Awful,” Bucky answered. His eyes flickered to Clint’s throat; his frown deepened. “Fuck, Clint --”

“I’ve had worse,” Clint said, catching Bucky’s right hand in his own. “Quit it.”

“My fault,” Bucky said in the quiet, drowsy voice of the drugged. He tore his eyes away from the bruises to blink up at the ceiling. “Sorry.”

“Hey, c’mon, I said quit it,” Clint said. With the familiar sting of guilt, he continued, “I can’t stay. Got a meeting with Fury.”

Bucky barked out a laugh. “You’re fucked,” he said.

“Yep,” Clint said, laughing right back.

“My fault, too,” Bucky said with a humorless smile. 

“Nope,” Clint said with cheer he didn’t really feel. Bucky blinked at him, wearing that one face that always reminded Clint of a wet cat. He squeezed his hand, stroking his thumb across Bucky’s knuckles. “My decision, my fault. C’mon, you’re tired. Go back to sleep. Steve’s here.”

Bucky made a face. His eyes drifted shut. “I know. He’s here every time I wake up. Tell him to go away, get some sleep.”

“I was on ice for 70 years,” Steve started, and Bucky cut him off with a groan.

“ _Stop_ ,” he said. “I’ve heard it before.”

When Clint looked up, Steve’s face was equal parts worried and fond. It made Clint feel like he was intruding on some family moment, but Bucky’s face was still turned towards him and Clint’s hand was warm where Bucky’s fingers had been locked around it. 

“What’s that face for?” Bucky asked, words slurring together, and Clint couldn’t help it, any of it. He would have gone up against a hundred assassins for him. 

It could be different this time, he told himself. He could do it right. Bucky would get himself fixed up and he’d come home with Clint and stare bleary-eyed at him over coffee and accidentally wear his shirts. They’d be superheroes, because it was what Bucky deserved. 

Clint would be a decent human being for once in his life, because Bucky deserved that too. 

“Absolutely nothing,” he said.

Bucky didn’t look like he believed him.

“Okay,” he said. He tried to catch Clint’s hand again and missed by a mile. “Come back.”

“I’ll try,” Clint said. He’d lied to Bucky enough. 

“Mmf,” Bucky said, and rolled over as far as the restraints would let him. Clint waited a moment, trying and failing to stop feeling like he’d been run over by a semi-truck, and then he headed for the door. Steve followed him, and he put a hand out before Clint could leave.

“I wanted to say thank you,” he said. “For being with him. I’m glad he wasn’t alone.”

He said it like he was grateful, or like Clint had had a choice. Clint tried to muster up that same smile from somewhere and said, “I’m just glad he didn’t knock me out and leave me by the side of the road,” which was the truth, more or less. 

But Steve sobered up at his words, eyes flickering towards the bruises on Clint’s face and throat, so it was probably the wrong thing to say.

“He’ll be okay,” Clint said. Steve’s smile was tight and unhappy.

“Yeah,” he said, glancing back at Bucky. “He always used to be.”

\---

Clint was grabbing a sandwich and nursing a headache when Fury descended like some big leather-clad bald eagle.

“Agent Barton,” he said, sitting down across from him. And then, because Clint had forgotten what a terrible, unforgiving workplace SHIELD actually was, he reached over and stole half of Clint’s sandwich. 

“No, you go right ahead,” Clint said. “I wasn’t hungry anyway.” 

“I don’t recall asking,” Fury said, giving him the stare. “Who’s the director around here?”

Clint picked up what was left of his sandwich and said, “Maybe this is a bad time to tell you Hill’s been making noise about mutiny.”

“Come with me,” Fury said, ignoring the Hill comment. 

Fury didn’t turn around and shoot Clint the moment the door was closed, so things were looking up. 

“How dead am I?” he asked. There was no point in beating around the bush where Fury was concerned.

Fury fixed him with a stone cold look and said, “You seem to be pretty good at saving your skin so far.”

“You know me,” Clint said.

Fury gave him a look he couldn’t interpret. He motioned for Clint to sit, but didn’t press the issue when Clint said, “I’d rather stand, sir, if it’s all the same to you.”

“I thought Agent Romanoff told you I wanted your report on my desk,” Fury said, gesturing to the piece of furniture in question. It was blank, probably mostly to prove the point. Clint was absolutely sure some poor bastard was standing in the closet holding an armful of Fury’s usual towering workload. 

“What, now I’m filing reports for my personal life?” Clint said. 

“When your personal life involves brainwashed, unhinged enemy agents, yes,” Fury said, slamming a hand down on the table. Clint didn’t flinch; what was Fury gonna do, send him to Siberia? Clint had had worse, and Stark would probably send a jet to pick him up. 

“It wasn’t a mission,” Clint said. “I’m not writing a mission report. What am I going to do, write _I won’t do it again_ a hundred times? Because, sir, we both know my track record.”

Fury looked like he’d sucked on a lemon. “Agent Barton, nothing helps me sleep at night like the knowledge that you are now mostly the Avengers’ problem.”

“The 'mostly' bothers me, too, sir,” Clint said. He tried a grin; it slid off his face when Fury just gave him the eyebrow. 

“Off the record,” Fury said. “You tell me what happened. I need to know.”

Clint told him. The whole schpiel, from stealing Stark’s car to sitting with Bucky on the floor of a matchbox motel room, watching him fall to pieces. 

Fury, to his credit, didn’t ask questions or interrupt. He listened patiently, one eye sharp, and at the end he stepped towards his one window and asked, “What do you think?”

“Sir?”

“About Barnes,” Fury elaborated. “House telepath took a look. Said all his circuits are fried, that there’s no damn point trying. There’s not enough in there to save.”

Clint’s blood ran cold. 

“With all due respect, sir,” he said, fighting to keep his voice even, “I think we need a new house telepath.”

“You disagree?” Fury said, raising his eyebrow. 

“I do,” Clint said. “I was there with him. Whatever was done to him, he can fight it. Hell, most of us watched him do it for months without realizing anything was wrong. I’m not going to just write him off because we’ve got a telepath afraid to actually do any real work.”

Fury was looking at him with that glint in his eye, the one that used to mean Clint was about to parachute into enemy territory with a handful of arrows and no extraction plan. “You sound angry,” he said. 

That surprised a laugh out of Clint. “I’m angry,” he said. 

Fury snorted.

“I’ve always liked you, Barton,” he said. 

“Sure, sir,” he said. “That’s why half the time I go in without an extraction plan.” 

“Because you can handle it,” Fury said. “Now shut your mouth for two minutes and listen. You’re a good agent. Always have been – usually. But you’re angry, and that’s a problem. You’ve been doing things the Avengers way too long. You’ve disobeyed direct orders.” Fury leveled him with a look. “The way I hear it, the only thing you care about is Cap’s boy.” 

Clint set his jaw and fought not to say anything. 

Apparently, Fury didn’t need to hear anything, anyway, because he only folded his hands behind his back, inclined his head and said, “You’re dismissed, Agent Barton.” 

That, Clint hadn’t expected, although why he couldn’t say. Still, he felt shocked. “I – what?”

“Did I stutter?” Fury asked. “You are dismissed, Agent Barton. SHIELD does not require your services up to and until further notice.” 

He punctuated the statement with a nod towards the door. There was nothing else to do; Clint shut his mouth and left with no small amount of sting. 

Tony was hanging around outside, and when he saw Clint he cocked an eyebrow and asked, “How’d it go?”

Clint gave him a look. Tony whistled and said, “That bad, huh?” 

“I’m dismissed,” Clint said, numb. “He stole my lunch, and I’m dismissed.” 

“Well,” Tony said, hands in his pockets. “That’s not exactly a _surprise_.” 

Clint snorted, pressing one hand to his face. Tony clapped him on the shoulder.

“Come on, Avenger,” he said. “Cheer up. You can buy me a sandwich, work your way up to paying off that car you wrecked.”

\---

The next time Clint got to see Bucky it was three days later and Bucky was out for most of the conversation. Clint told himself that it was alright, that it was okay, that at least Bucky seemed – peaceful, if not particularly lucid. Fifteen minutes in, some SHIELD goon stuck his head in the door, told Clint to pack it up.

“Where’re you going?” Bucky asked when he tried to leave, tightening his fingers around Clint’s hand. Clint squeezed back before letting go. He bent down and Bucky slung his right arm up and over Clint’s shoulders, keeping him in place. He was frowning, clear-eyed for the first time in at least a day.

“Nowhere, gorgeous,” Clint said, trying for soothing. Bucky didn’t look like he was buying it. “Gotta go before they shoot me is all. No big deal.”

Bucky frowned, not at all deterred when Clint bent to kiss him. “Who’s gonna shoot you?” he asked, curling warm fingers in the neck of Clint’s shirt. He was tracking Clint’s every movement now with a sharpness that hadn’t been there before. 

“Figure of speech,” he said. “I’m not SHIELD’s favorite person right now. It’s okay, at least the Avengers still love me. You’ll be back with us before you know it, Bucko.”

“Sure, and pigs will fly. You gettin’ sent to Siberia?” Bucky asked, narrowing his eyes. He yanked Clint forward, pressing their foreheads together. The bedrail dug into Clint’s stomach, but that was alright. He shut his eyes, trying to commit the moment to memory, so next time he was about to get shot by a crazy guy in green he could think, _yeah, okay, that’s why I’m doing this._

“Nah,” he said. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Bucky frowned. “Only because I’m having a little trouble, y’know,” he said, “keeping track of time in this place.”

“I know,” Clint told him. His heart ached. He stared straight into Bucky’s eyes and when Bucky didn’t even blink he laughed and said, “Hey, soldier, you’ve got pretty eyes.” 

Bucky snorted unkindly, but when he leaned in and kissed Clint it was gentle. 

“For luck,” he said when he pulled away. “Whatever you do, don’t get dead.”

“Always the goal,” Clint said.

\---

“You’re coming with me,” Natasha said when she found Clint on the range. She was suited up, hair pulled back, and there were, pretty noticeably, at least two guns on her person.

“Uh,” Clint said. “You’re not going to take me out back and shoot me, are you?” 

“If I was going to do that, you’d never see it coming,” Natasha said. “Come on. You look like you could use something to hit.”

Clint couldn’t argue with that. 

Two hours later Clint was in Jersey, getting shot at, because Natasha didn’t do anything halfway. 

“See?” Natasha asked, crouched behind some crates with him. “Don’t you feel better?” 

The strange thing was, he really did. He didn’t even bother to wonder what that said about him anymore.

“You know me too well,” he said. 

Instead of answering, Natasha only pointed to the ceiling and said, “Grappling hook arrow. It’ll be fun.”

\---

Afterwards they ended up in the back of a diner, and after they ordered Clint put his hands down on the table and said, “I need you to explain it to me.”

Natasha leaned back; her hair was the same color as the vinyl booth. She toyed with a packet of sugar. 

“What I told you before, I told you so you wouldn’t run off and do anything stupid,” she said. “Look how well that turned out.” 

“What was I supposed to do?” he said. “Look, what you told me – I was with him, I saw it. But I don’t _understand_ it.” For one moment he almost saw double: Natasha staring him down from across the table and Natasha sitting by his bedside, saying, _I hit you really hard on the head._ “I need to know why he’s so different.” 

The waitress came back with coffee. Natasha watched her leave, then said, “I don’t have any _good_ explanations.” 

“I’ll take what I can get,” Clint said. “It’s better than nothing.” When Natasha still seemed to hesitate, swirling her coffee around in her cup, he said, “Nat. I was on the road with him for days, and at the end I wasn’t sure if he was going to kill me, I was going to have to kill him, or if he was just going to tear himself apart. It _hurt_.”

“I don’t think he felt much better,” Natasha said, giving him a look over the top of her coffee cup. He felt himself color and ducked his head, scratching the back of his neck. 

“I know,” he said. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just – he was fine. And then he wasn’t.” 

Now Natasha looked troubled, too. 

“Like I said,” she murmured. “I only have what I have.”

“I just want to know why it’s still tearing him up like this,” Clint said, feeling that same sinking helplessness come back over him. “With you and me…”

“You’re looking at it wrong,” Natasha said. “You’re looking for some common ground. There isn’t any. James and I are both products of the same people. You and he both had your minds taken and toyed with. That’s where it ends.” 

He must have looked really pathetic, because when Natasha looked at him her eyes softened. “I’m not telling you this to be cruel, Clint,” she said, reaching across the table to place her hand over his. “You said you wanted to understand. I’m explaining, as best as I can.” 

Clint swallowed down his whole cup of coffee in one go and said, “I’m listening.” 

Natasha kept talking, all the way through the food and two more coffee refills, and at the end of it Clint said, “What I don’t get – I don’t get why he remembered in the first place. Y’know? He turns up, he’s got no memory of any of this, and he’s just – normal.” 

Natasha pressed her lips together and said, “I wanted him to stay like that. It was better, that he didn’t remember. I was happy for him.” 

Clint felt like a jerk all over again. “‘Tasha, I didn’t –”

She shot him a wry look. 

“Stop it,” she said, so Clint shut his mouth. Natasha cradled her empty cup between her hands and, after a beat, said, “He wasn’t the only thing recovered from the crash site.” 

“Okay,” Clint said. “So, what, what else?” 

Natasha pulled out her cell phone, flipped through it, and then slid it across the table. 

“Does that look familiar to you?” she asked. 

“Sort of like a shot of some classified documents,” Clint said. “I’m so proud.” 

“Because it certainly looks familiar to me,” Natasha continued, raising a sharp eyebrow. “Look.” 

There were glass shards in the photo, and they were a shade of blue Clint never wanted to see again. Every time he thought about it, it was like being stabbed with a thousand ice-cold needles, so mostly he just didn’t think about it at all. 

“Can’t be what it looks like,” he said at last. “’Cause I’m pretty sure Thor literally took that thing to the furthest corner of the universe.” He shoved the phone back across the table, the beginnings of a headache creeping up behind his eyes. “Besides, how would you even go about breaking something like that? Christ, my head.” 

Natasha slid her phone back into her bag and fished out a bottle of painkillers. 

“It’s not what it looks like, but it is a cheap copy,” she said, gesturing for more coffee. “What people can’t control, they counterfeit.” 

Clint propped one elbow up on the table, rubbing at his forehead. His other hand was curled in a fist by his cup. “I hate this,” he said. Warm, deceptively delicate fingers closed over his hand, and then Natasha was forcing his hand open and depositing four pills in his palm.

He washed them down with coffee, automatic, and then all of a sudden he remembered sitting in that motel room with his back to the wall and Bucky’s head on his shoulder. Bucky had said, voice thick and quiet, “I made a wish, y’know,” and Clint, just trying to keep him talking, had asked what he’d wished for. 

“That’s the stupid part,” Bucky had said. “I don’t know.”

He hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Bucky had said a lot things that didn’t make sense. 

Now his throat felt tight. He closed his eyes, but all he could see was glowing blue. He felt sick all over again. He leaned back against the squeaky vinyl booth and shut his eyes.

“I hate this,” he said at last. “He looked happy when he was with us, right? The Avengers.” 

“Yes,” she said. 

“I want him to be happy,” he said, miserably. Natasha’s knee bumped his under the table.

“I know,” she said and then added, “I want him to be safe.”

\---

The dog was in the hall when he got back. He looked sad.

Clint had a bag with takeout from the diner in it, and the dog perked up when he saw it. His tail thumped against the ground, hopeful.

“Don’t give me that,” Clint said, hopelessly, and that was how the dog ended up with half a turkey dinner. 

The next morning the dog was gone, which was fine. Clint wasn’t sure if dogs were supposed to be eating toast anyway. He ate it himself on his trip down the stairs. 

SHIELD was – fine. Everything was fine. There was no real change with Bucky. No progress either way. Clint wanted to think that was good news, that he was somehow leveling out, but Natasha’s stony expression suggested she thought otherwise. There were mutterings of trying some tech out on him, trying to wipe the programming, but Tony and Bruce were making noises about it, railing about things that Clint didn’t understand.

Worry sat like a stone in his stomach. He felt helpless and trapped, unable to actually _do_ anything, and he found himself wishing he was back on the road with Bucky.

Which was stupid. It had been terrible, Bucky out of his head and miserable and Clint half-sure the whole thing was going to end with them both in some ditch. 

The dog was back when he got home, except he wasn’t alone. His burly friends didn’t look happy when Clint gave the dog a wave, and he figured they probably wouldn’t take kindly to him trying to push food in the poor mutt’s direction. 

So he did what any self-respecting grown man would do: he ordered two burgers and patiently waited half the night until the guards at the door disappeared inside for a minute. 

In his defense, it wasn’t like he had anything better to do. 

He opened the door a crack and tossed the burger the dog’s way. It was gone in ten seconds, and then the dog was licking his chops and gazing at Clint with something disturbingly like love. 

“Yeah, well,” Clint said. “No problem, buddy.”

The next morning, as he was leaving the building, a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. It took some considerable strength of will not to punch its owner square in the face. 

“You feeding the dog?” one of the schlubs asked, mustache quivering a little. 

“What?” Clint said. “That dog?” 

He pointed to where the dog was sitting by the door, on a chain and leash now. His tail wagged and he cocked his head to the side, like he knew Clint had extra breakfast in his pocket. 

“There another dog?” the guy asked. Clint shrugged, knocking the guy’s hand from his shoulder.

“I don’t know, man. Big building. People could have dogs,” he said. When he got the stare down, he continued, “I’m not feeding your dog.” 

“Boss’s dog,” the schlub corrected. He narrowed his eyes, raking them over Clint from head to toe, and said, “You’re not feeding the dog?”

“Nope,” Clint said.

“Then why you got bacon in your pocket, bro?”

That, admittedly, was a pretty good question. 

“I like to eat on the go,” he said, taking one careful step back. Keeping eye contact the whole time, he stuck a piece of bacon in his mouth and then ‘accidentally’ fumbled the next piece. It skidded to the floor by the dog’s feet. 

The schlub’s nostrils flared.

“Whoops,” Clint said. “Sorry. My mistake.”

“You leave the dog alone,” the guy said. “Nobody feeds the dog, got it?”

“Sure,” Clint said easily. “Whatever you say, man.”

That night he slipped the dog a whole steak, just for kicks.

\---

“He’s better today,” Steve said, first thing when Clint walked through the door.

Relief flooded through him; he almost hadn’t come. Better time spent with what remained of the Avengers, shooting guys who deserved it than watching someone who deserved _better_ unravel before his eyes.

Bucky looked pale and tired. There were dark smudges beneath his eyes and there was a sharp sort of brittleness about him. He’d worried his bottom lip raw, but he smiled when Clint walked in. 

It hurt to look at him.

“Hey,” he said, holding out his right hand, palm up. Clint took it, squeezing harder than necessary. It made that smile a little more real. “Don’t know if I want you seeing me like this.”

“You want me to go,” Clint started, but Bucky shook his head. 

“I don’t want that either,” he said, quietly, and Clint nearly asked what he did want, but he had a feeling he already knew. He wanted it, too. 

“You look better,” he said instead. That won him an arched eyebrow.

“So everyone keeps saying,” Bucky said, leaning back and stretching. He kept his eyes fixed on Clint, watchful. “To tell the truth, I don’t feel that way at all.” He paused, licking his lip. “In case they can’t help me. You’re gonna turn around and not look back, alright?”

Clint’s stomach dropped. “Hey, hey,” he said, and, “c’mon, no,” but Bucky wouldn’t be swayed. He twisted his fingers in Clint’s, hanging on. His gaze was steady, so eventually Clint bowed his head and said, “You really know how to give a guy a hard time.”

“Sure do,” Bucky said, smiling. “You’ve seen what I grew up with.”

Clint snorted. “They’ll probably kick me out soon.”

“So talk to me,” Bucky said. Clint would’ve done just about anything he asked, so he did. He gave him the bare bones of a couple of small time Avengers missions, successful, no problems on their side, and then when nobody came to drag him away he talked about the apartment. 

“Sounds nice,” Bucky said. 

“It’s a dive,” Clint said. “You’ll hate it,” he continued, which made Bucky laugh.

“You don’t know me half as well as you think you do,” he said, eyes flashing. 

Clint laughed and it jarred that thing in his chest, the bit of him that ached whenever Bucky turned those eyes on him. 

“I think I know you well enough,” he said, cupping his free hand to Bucky’s jaw and leaning in close. Bucky smiled against his mouth and for a minute, everything was good. Clint could close his eyes and imagine them in sunlit Avengers tower, instead of some depressing SHIELD cell.

Then Bucky bit him. Hard, and not in the fun way. 

Clint yelped, fighting the urge to jerk backwards. He gripped Bucky by the back of his neck and after a second Bucky pulled back, sneering. He had Clint’s blood on his teeth. He spat at him, snarling in Russian.

Clint’s blood ran cold. “Hey, hey,” he said. Blood welled up where Bucky had broken the skin. Clint still had his hand closed around the back of Bucky’s neck, so he squeezed and said, “C’mon, babe, you’re okay, just _breathe_ \--” only for Bucky to headbutt him hard enough to make Clint see stars.

Clint reeled backwards, but Bucky still had his hand. He gripped hard enough that Clint thought he heard bones grind. 

“You think you know me?” he hissed.

Dizzy and in pain, Clint only registered the next few moments as a blur. Natasha flew through the door, kneeling before both of them. She spoke in Russian and after a moment Bucky released Clint’s hand. Natasha pushed him backwards.

She took Bucky by the shoulders. He pulled away from her touch, then relaxed as she spoke to him in hushed, urgent Russian. 

Clint just stood there, stunned, numb down to his core. 

Finally Bucky looked up at him, face blank, and he said in English that sounded nothing like his usual voice, “She says you’re a friend.” He made a face, wiping the blood from his mouth. “You startled me.”

There was nothing Clint could say to that. The Winter Soldier, apparently satisfied, turned his attention back towards Natasha, whispering to her in clipped tones.

“Safe,” she kept saying, her hands over his, knuckles white. “Safe.”

Next thing he knew someone was dragging Clint out from the room and then he was in a hallway, leaning against the wall, head pounding. 

Someone grabbed him by the chin, forcing his face up towards the light, and then he was blinking down at Jessica.

“Jesus fuck, Clint,” she said, wide-eyed. 

He shrugged her off, wiping his mouth off on the back of his arm. It came away streaked with red. “I’m okay.”

“Oh, no,” Jessica snorted. She snagged him by the elbow. “C’mon. That needs stitches.”

\---

Nothing was broken. The SHIELD medic called Clint lucky while he stitched him up, but he didn’t feel it. His head hurt, his hand hurt, his whole body hurt.

Jessica stayed with him the entire time, even when he told her to go.

“I’ve got nothing better to do,” she said. “And I remember how you get. You should go home. Get some sleep.” 

“Eh,” Clint said, slumped in a chair in medical.

“What?” Jessica pressed.

“I think some mob lives in my building now,” he muttered. Jessica stared at him like he was crazy, which, granted, was fair.

“You’re a disaster,” she said at last. “Were you always this much of a disaster?”

“It comes and goes,” he said. “I can’t go. He needs me.”

“What he needs is a new head,” Jessica snorted. She averted her eyes, crossing her arms. “Sorry. That’s not fair. Look, I know you’ve got a thing, but he did just try to bite your face off, so.”

Clint snorted. “Like you haven’t?” But that was unfair too, so he said, “It’s not him. It’s this -- it’s what they put in his head.” It was what they took away from him, Clint was starting to dread, but Jessica’s face had fallen and she was staring at her knees with a strange intensity. 

“You want to avenge him, Avenger?” she asked. 

Clint opened his mouth to ask what she meant when SHIELD’s house telepath stumbled in, blood streaming from his nose. Natasha had him by the arm, her face stony and his blood down the front of her uniform. 

“I quit,” he moaned as the doctor took him from Natasha. “I quit, I quit, I hate this stupid job.” 

Clint looked at Natasha. She only shook her head.

\---

It was the dog that did it for him in the end. He guessed he shouldn’t have been surprised.

His head was killing him and everything ached. Looking in the mirror had been a terrible mistake. He felt more bruised than he actually was, but he still wasn’t a pretty sight. An old lady had crossed the street to avoid him on his way over, and he’d muttered, “I’m an Avenger,” to himself, heart like lead in his chest and lip still throbbing. 

So he’d gone home, had a drink. Maybe more than one drink. 

There were noises coming from the apartment next door. Yelling, followed by a short whine.

Something inside cracked. 

Two minutes later he had bow strapped to his back. He realized, in a foggy sort of way, that he was about to do something stupid – but he already had one leg over the windowsill. He swung the other one over and, with silent thanks towards Natasha’s beautiful cat burglar moves, vaulted himself over the fire escape.

Then, because grace could only take him so far, he put his boot through next door's window. 

Inside there were six men, two with guns, all with sunglasses indoors, standing around a poker table covered in money, screaming at each other.

“Oh, _c’mon_ ,” Clint said.

Everything that happened afterwards was a blur of broken glasses, bullets and a lot of shouting. 

Afterwards he had a bleeding nose to go with his busted lip, but all in all he was still in one piece. There was a pile of unconscious guys at his feet. There were sirens in the distance; someone had called the cops. He dragged the back of his hand across his face, then grabbed his arrows. 

He opened the door and there was the dog, tail wagging.

Clint looked at the dog. The dog looked at him. 

“What am I gonna do with you?” Clint said. 

The dog stuck his tongue out, panting happily. 

Five minutes later he was barricaded in his own bathroom with the dog, trying to get himself cleaned up as best as he could. The dog just lay on the floor by the door, panting, staring up at him with the big doe eyes. 

“This doesn’t mean anything,” Clint said, giving up on gentle dabbing and just full-on pouring antiseptic over his collection of brand new cuts and grazes and the one very minor stab wound. “I just don’t want you to get shot, or end up in the pound or anything. I’ve seen _Lady and the Tramp_ , I know what goes on in there.” 

The dog whined, tilting his head to the side, and Clint shot him a look.

“So this isn’t permanent,” he said. “We’ll get something better worked out for you.”

The dog yawned and put his head down on his paws, closing his eyes.

“Great,” Clint said, turning back to the mirror. “Glad that’s settled.”

\---

Jessica showed up on his doorstep a day later.

“Can I come in?” she said. 

“Free country,” Clint said, moving back from the door. “You want anything?” 

“Do you have coffee?” Jessica asked, setting her purse down on the coffee table. 

“Do I have coffee,” Clint snorted, and ambled over into the kitchen. The dog followed close on his heels. “Least somebody’s having a good time,” he said, scratching him behind the ears. “Aren’t you, buddy?”

“What’s his name?” Jessica asked from behind him. Clint hadn’t heard her footsteps; he guessed he couldn’t be surprised. 

“Don’t know,” Clint said, twisting around to look at her. She raised her eyebrows. “Not my dog.”

“You just feed him and let him sleep in your place, huh?” she said. She bent down, giving the dog big scratches all over his ears and down his back. 

“Traitor,” Clint said. The dog ignored him, rolling over onto his back. 

It was strange, Jessica seated at his tiny beat-up kitchen table with her hair piled up on top of her head and a cup of coffee cradled between her small palms. She looked at Clint, really looked at him, and said, “I’ve got a list you might be interested in. Division X defectors who ended up working for HYDRA.”

Clint didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t that. He meant to ask why she had that, or why she was coming to him, but what came out of his mouth was, “You what?”

Jessica sighed, rolling her eyes.

“What, evil scientists can’t defect? From what I hear, most of the ones you want are probably long dead, but.” She shrugged. “That information doesn’t die. I have names. A possible location,” She stopped, drumming her fingers on the tabletop. “You have anything to drink?”

“There’s beer in the fridge,” he said. She made a face.

“Do you have anything stronger?” she asked. 

Five minutes of rummaging turned up a slightly grimy bottle of mediocre tequila. Clint set it on the table with a thunk. 

“No limes. Don’t think I have glasses, either,” he said. 

Jessica snorted, twisting the bottle open. She took a long pull and then smacked it back on the table, shoving it his way. 

“C’mon, Barton,” she said, dark eyes glinting. “I think you know me better than that.” 

That startled a laugh out of him. 

“I know you better than to let you get me drunk, that’s for sure,” he said. “Jess, be honest with me –” she snorted “—what do you want?” 

“I always want to hit HYDRA, you know that,” she said, shrugging. It was true; he remembered a couple of late nights, trying to lure her into bed, only to be rebuffed in favor of the latest intel. “And I want revenge, same as you.” 

For a long moment, Clint couldn’t think of anything to say. “I think you mixed up a syllable in there. It’s Avengers, not – I don’t want revenge, Jess.” 

“Your face says different,” Jessica said bluntly. “I’m not stupid – you run off with this guy, and then you come back and he gets locked up in SHIELD’s tower because he’s falling apart. Somebody did that to him. How can you not want revenge?” 

Clint swallowed hard, looking anywhere but Jessica. 

“I’m not blaming you,” Jessica said. “I’ve seen the state he’s in. If it were me in your shoes, I’d…” she trailed off, and when Clint looked at her she just shook her head. “I’m getting off track. These people – that’s what they all do. They take people apart and make them into weapons. I want revenge. You want revenge. We have a chance to take information away from them, information they’d use to hurt other people. It’s simple. So do you want in or not?”

Clint opened his mouth to say – no, or to try to talk her out of it, or whatever it was a superhero was supposed to do. But he was tired, and beyond the point of deception, and actual _avenging_ \-- that sounded good. 

He grabbed the bottle and took a long drag before asking, “Why not take it to SHIELD? Or the rest of the Avengers?” 

“It’s going to end up being some tiny base, Clint, it’s not worth SHIELD’s time,” Jessica said, waving the question off. When he made a face at her, she relented, sighing, and said, “I've been doing it for a while, hitting them here and there -- mostly small operations, sidelines stuff. It’s not _mine_ if SHIELD gets involved.” 

“But it’s fine if I’m there?” he asked. 

“You’re one guy. You want the same thing,” Jessica said, shrugging. “And you’re good in a fight. That hasn’t changed.”

He tipped his head back, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. Under the table the dog slunk past, brushing at his legs. 

It was hard, not to think about the look on Bucky’s face, the way his fingers had brushed Clint’s blood from his mouth, and even before that, how everything about him had seemed so brittle. He missed the Bucky from just weeks ago fiercely, the one who’d looked surprised when Clint finally hit on a joke that made him laugh, the one who’d turned right back around and surprised him, pulling him close in that club in Miami. 

He wanted him back, but he’d known, ever since that first day back in SHIELD, that that might not be an option. Clint felt hollow. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay. What've I got to lose? Sounds like a plan.” 

When he looked back at her, Jessica was smiling.

She left, not long afterwards, and as she was walking out the door, something hit him.

“Jess,” he called after her, taking one step out into the hallway. She turned, one eyebrow arched. “What do _you_ want revenge for?”

She cracked another smile, this one wry, and raised one hand. Yellow-green electricity arced across her fingertips.

“C’mon, Barton,” she said. “I thought it was obvious.”

\---

Bucky wouldn’t look at him.

“Hey,” Clint said, coaxing, and he felt stupid, using the same voice he used to try and get the dog to stop hiding under the table whenever there was a loud noise. It seemed wrong. “You okay?” 

That got him a dark chuckle. Bucky pushed his hair back away from his face. His fingers were trembling. 

“That’s a stupid question,” he said, finally meeting Clint’s eyes. “What do you think?” 

“Bucky,” Clint said, desperation edging into his voice. “It wasn’t your fault, I’m _fine_ \--”

“Stop,” Bucky cut him off, one pale hand over his eyes. “Just stop. You don’t understand. It’s not,” he hesitated, took a shaking a breath, and then continued, “I don’t think you should come see me anymore.”

Clint’s heart sank. 

“I told you, I’m fine,” he protested. “It barely hurts, it wasn’t _you_ \--”

“But it is,” Bucky said, and when he looked up his eyes were cold and brittle. “You know I’m not even sure if you’re here right now? Everything’s mixed up. I have these dreams.” He swallowed, throat working, and said, “I killed you, you know that?” 

For a long moment Clint couldn’t find any words. “But you _didn’t_ ,” he said at last, miserably. 

“Yeah, well,” Bucky said, shrugging. “Steve had to tell me that. Except now I’m not sure if I dreamed that, too. I can’t take it anymore. I’m sick of all of you looking at me like –” he cut off again, taking a sharp breath, and he slid his hand across his eyes. “Like I’m dying.” 

Fear gripped Clint, cold and sharp like the press of metal against his throat. 

“I can’t just leave you,” he said, reaching for him. But Bucky pulled back, pressing himself against the wall. 

“You said you’d do anything I asked,” he said. “Remember that?” 

Clint remembered. They’d been crammed together in the backseat of Tony’s stupid car, and Bucky had been pale and jumpy, talking about some mission, some man in the shadows, slipping between languages and Clint had been – afraid, he could admit that. Scared for Bucky and of him, too, and heartbroken besides. He’d taken Bucky by the shoulders and kissed him, and he’d promised him anything he asked for, because there hadn’t been anything he _could_ do. 

Clint hated feeling helpless, and here it was again, creeping up on him. 

“I’m asking you now,” Bucky said. His smile was crooked and kind. “I don’t want you to come back.” 

“Bucky,” Clint tried, desperately, trying to think of a way to convince him, but Bucky only stared him down and said, “You going to break a promise, Hawkeye?” 

So Clint had to leave, because he’d promised, and he didn’t have anything else left to give Bucky.

\---

“You know, fighting crime with you was a lot easier when you lived in my basement, like my own personal deadbeat college kid.”

“The basement goes in the ground,” Clint said, letting another arrow fly. He caught the Rhino in the flank, not that it seemed to be doing much good. "How do you not know that?"

“My point is,” Tony said, circling up and around, “you almost missed all the fun. What, you take the subway?” 

“Not all of us have flying armor,” Clint shot back. Tony was too busy actually stopping the Rhino to snipe back, which was a little disappointing. 

Afterwards, while they were helping with the clean up, Tony said, “We think we’ve got a good chance at wiping the rest of Bucky’s old programming.”

Clint stilled, heart pounding in his ears. 

“How?” he asked.

“It’s complicated,” Tony said. When Clint made a face, he said, “Just – trust me, I already went over this with Steve. The point is, I think it’s going to work.”

SHIELD’s telepath had done nothing but get himself attacked, and there’d been noises about some girl from Westchester they’d brought in once before. But none of it was a guarantee, and Tony – Tony looked confident. Clint wanted to believe it.

“You’re sure?” Clint pressed. 

Tony shrugged. “I’m sure enough to risk it.”

That was good enough for Clint. He breathed out, tipping his head back, and Tony placed one heavy, armored hand on his shoulder.

"It’s going to be okay," he said. "You’ll see. Next thing you know, it’ll be the whole band back together.”

\---

Bucky’s jaw was set tight and the knuckles of his right hand were white against the armrest.

Steve wasn’t looking much better. Clint couldn’t blame him; his own heart was in his throat. He kept thinking, _if it works_ , but then he had to stop, in case he jinxed it. 

One last shot, Fury had said. If there was anybody who could make one last shot count, it was Bucky.

Clint wanted to tell him that, but Bucky’s words -- _I don’t think you should come see me anymore_ \-- still rang in his ears, so he watched from the other side of the glass and tried not to stare too hard. 

After what felt like an eternity, it was over. All the SHIELD scientists and techs stepped back, Tony started fussing over some data. Bucky sat up, slowly, and Steve stepped forward.

Bucky’s eyes were glassy, his expression faraway, and Clint watched as Steve’s face fell, uncertain. Then Bucky’s shoulders hitched and he buried his face in his hands, curling in on himself. Instantly Steve was next to him, pulling him forward. 

Clint let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding, even as doubt curled in his stomach. 

“That’s it?” he said. “Did it work?” 

It looked like it might’ve. Bucky was clutching fistfuls of Steve’s shirt, face buried in his friend’s broad shoulder.

“Nothing to do but wait and see,” Hill said, arms crossed. Natasha didn’t say anything, just watched as Steve closed his eyes, one big arm around Bucky’s shoulders. He kept repeating something; Clint could just barely read his lips: _it’s okay, it’s okay._

\---

Clint’s phone rang early the next morning, so he shoved a pillow over his head and flipped over, ignoring it.

It kept ringing. 

Finally the dog started howling, so Clint had no choice but to pick it up. 

“What?” he bit out.

“Wow,” Jessica said. “Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of superhero? What if Union Square was full of robots?” 

“Been there, done that,” Clint muttered under his breath. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he said, “I’ve got another phone for Avengers stuff, Jess.” It was also the number he knew Natasha or Tony, whoever, would call if there was news about Bucky, but he didn’t say that out loud. He flopped back down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “What’s the matter?” 

“Nothing,” Jessica said. “We’re going out tonight.” 

“Okay,” Clint said, still half-asleep. Then, “Wait. What?”

\---

Midnight saw Clint scaling up the side of the building.

“You hang around Black Widow all the time,” he muttered to himself in a mocking falsetto of Jessica’s voice, “so obviously you can scale any wall I point you at.” 

He could, more or less, but that wasn’t the point. He swung himself up onto the fire escape, and from there on in it was just a little fancy breaking and entering. Clint almost felt like a new man.

Jessica stumbled in an hour later, wearing a tight red dress. She had her arm draped around the shoulders of an older man. They were laughing. 

“Shh, shh,” Jessica said, leaning heavily on her new friend’s shoulder. The hall light caught on her long dark hair as she threw her head back. “Your neighbors will hear!”

“So?” the man said.

“ _So_ , I don’t want my boyfriend finding out!” Jessica chided. “He’s a _very_ important man.”

That was Clint’s cue. He clicked on the kitchen light. 

“Hey, honey,” he said, twirling an arrow between his fingers. His bow sat by his side. “Who’s your friend?” 

He kicked out a chair just as Jessica put her hands on the man’s shoulders, shoving him forward. He caught himself clumsily, standing in the threshold of the kitchen with his mouth hanging open. He looked, suddenly, nervous.

“Have a seat, buddy,” Clint said, leaning forward. “You’re not looking so good.”

“What is this?” the man asked, turning to Jessica. She ignored him. 

“You bring me a change of clothes?” she asked Clint, holding out a hand. He tossed a sweatshirt her way; she made a face at it before tugging it on over her flimsy dress. 

“What’s going on?” their man demanded, visibly sweating now

“Just your garden variety interrogation,” Jessica called, shaking her hair out. “Whoops. Probably should’ve told you that back at the bar, huh?”

“I’m really gonna have to insist you sit down,” Clint said. “Wouldn’t want to be a bad host. What’s your name?”

“Why should I tell you?” the man asked, perspiring, lips quivering. Clint smiled at him, leaning in with his elbows braced on his knees.

“I’m Clint,” he said. Jerking a thumb towards where Jessica was leaning against the kitchen doorway, he continued, “She’s Jessica.” 

“I didn’t lie about that,” Jessica said, crossing her arms. Clint laughed in spite of himself.

“See?” he said. “We’re all friends already.” Seriously, he added, “I want you to know. Nobody has to get hurt. I mean that. All I want is information. Some names, maybe an address.”

“ _I_ kind of want to hit somebody,” Jessica volunteered, swaggering into the room. Clint looked at her, and all of a sudden it was like he couldn’t stop. 

She leaned over their man, her long hair falling over her shoulders. Clint was struck by a memory: one night in Madripoor, when she’d sat on the edge of the bed with the sheets around her, looking out at the city, and he’d brushed her hair back from her neck and kissed her bare shoulder. 

That’d been about two months before everything had gone straight to hell. 

He blinked and he was back in the kitchen, where Jessica was leading the interrogation. That was familiar in a different way.

“I know you have the names,” Jessica said, her hands on the chair’s arms, right in their man’s space. “I know you want to give them to me. This just doesn’t have to be difficult.”

It really didn’t, Clint realized. Giving Jessica whatever she wanted seemed, suddenly, the simplest thing in the world. She was beautiful in the soft kitchen light, Helen of Troy in a purple hoodie, and he couldn’t imagine anyone refusing her anything.

Everything felt heavy. His head was spinning and all he could see clearly was Jessica. 

Their man talked. It didn’t take much. He gave them names, places – anything Jessica asked for, they got. At the end of it she put her hand against his neck and shocked him. He slumped, unconscious, in his seat. 

“Put him in the bedroom, would you?” Jessica said, straightening up. 

“That’s it?” Clint asked. 

“ _That_ was a pretty strong venom blast, and he was pretty drunk,” she said. “He’s not going to remember any of this when he wakes up, lucky bastard.” 

Clint carried the unconscious man into his bedroom and dumped him on his bed, none too gently. He left him there, and when he went back into the hall he found Jessica silhouetted in the light.

“Well, that was informative,” she said, stretching. She tilted her head towards Clint, grinning, and her long dark hair spilled over her shoulders. 

Clint hummed a reply, stepping closer, slotting his hands around her waist. She turned, giving him a quizzical look, and she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, so it was natural to tilt his head, lean down --

Jessica slapped a hand over his face. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. Then, a split second later, she said, “Clint. I need you to go stick your head out a window. Right now.”

“Rather stay here with you,” he said, lips brushing against her palm. 

“Clint,” Jessica said, eyes narrowed. “Fresh air. Go.”

He would’ve killed or died for her. Climbing out onto the narrow fire escape was simple in the face of that.

The air outside was just the wrong side of chilly. Jessica stood by the window and told him just to take deep breaths, so he did, and slowly he felt his head start to clear. The headache crept up on him as the fog lifted.

“Ow,” he said, pressing the heel of his palm against his eyes. “I forgot you could do that.”

“I don’t _like_ doing that,” Jessica said. “It’s uncomfortable on a lot of levels. But it makes an interrogation a hell of a lot easier, no matter which side I’m on.”

Clint sat down heavily, rubbing at his face. “My head is killing me.”

“Stay there,” Jessica ordered. Clint waved in her general direction, and then she was gone. 

He tipped his head back, breathing deep, trying to will the rest of Jessica’s pheromones away. He thought about Bucky, and his real balcony back at Stark Tower. He’d played that morning over in his head again and again, until he could almost see a version of events where Bucky would wake up with his head in the right place and English in his mouth. It was easy to do it one more time, to imagine Bucky’s sharp grin instead of the look he’d actually worn, backed into a corner and scared.

“Fuck,” Clint said to himself, closing his eyes.

A few minutes later Jessica climbed out onto the fire escape with him, clutching two mugs of coffee. 

“Here,” she said, passing him one.

He took it, cradling it between his palms and breathing deep. Jessica sat down next to him; her hair was a mess and her makeup was smudged. She smelled like cheap coffee, but she still sent a pang straight through his heart. 

He blamed it on the last of the pheromones. 

“You’re being nice to me,” he said after a moment. 

“I can be nice,” Jessica said, taking a long sip of her own coffee. Her bare feet dangled off the edge. 

“Sure,” he said. “Just not to me.”

She cast him an incredulous look. “That was your fault,” she said, and, then, with a sigh, “I don’t want to talk about this, Clint. We got good info. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“Right,” Clint said, and together they sat outside and drank their coffee. The sky up ahead was clear and the stars were bright. After she finished her coffee, Jessica stood, stretching, and then she leaned over the railing and, with perfect aim, hurled the cup into a dumpster down below. 

Clint let a low whistle. Jessica held out a hand.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go.”

“Yeah,” Clint said, standing up. “Okay.”

“You have to understand,” Jessica said as they climbed down the fire escape. Her heels dangled from her fingers. “I don’t want this to be some whole, _we do this, we might not come back_ thing,” she dropped her voice to a low growl, then rolled her eyes. “It’s just – we get in. We wreck shit. We leave.”

“I already got it,” he said. "You don’t have to warn me off. I’m not going anywhere.”

He held out a hand to help her down; she ignored it. 

“Yeah, well,” she said, bending to slip her heels back on. “That’s a first, so.”

He bit back a cringe. 

“Jess,” he said, and she nailed him with a look. 

“I mean it,” she said. “I don’t want to talk about it. I didn’t back then and I don’t now. This is a teamup of convenience, got it? Not some feelings fest so you can feel better about yourself.” 

Clint bit the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything he might regret. 

Jessica straightened up, running her fingers through her hair. She shot Clint a dark look, and then she huffed a sigh, tilting her head back so she could look at the sky. 

“I don’t know why,” she said, “but you actually seem to care this time. About Barnes, I mean. So. Don’t fuck it up, Clint.” 

“Too late for that,” he said with a weak grin, hands in his pockets. Jessica gave him a sharp look.

“You could try harder, you know,” she said, and then she turned on her heel and headed down the alley. 

He turned to walk the other way, then realized it was out of his way, so he ended up awkwardly following her.

“Goodnight, Clint,” she said when it came time for them to part ways.

“Want me to walk you the rest of the way back?” he offered. 

Her look was wry. “Good _night_ , Clint.”

It was close to dawn when he got back to his apartment, and there was an old woman judging him from behind her lacy curtains. He gave her a friendly wave and got a glare in return. Inside the apartment was dark, but he didn’t trip over the dog immediately so he left the lights off and dragged himself into the bedroom.

He collapsed on the bed, kicking his boots off, and then he lay there, on top of the covers, staring up at the ceiling. After a moment the mattress dipped, and the dog whuffled at him. 

“Hey, buddy,” Clint called to him. “Miss me?”

The dog settled down by his side and tried to stick his cold nose in Clint’s armpit. Clint laughed, scratching at his neck.

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to ditch you. Trying to -- make things right, I guess. Don’t think I’m doing a great job of it.”

The dog sighed, one ear twitching.

Clint dug his phone out of his pocket, idly flipping through the pictures. He had two of Bucky -- one from about two months ago, laughing at a joke somebody made, a little blurry around the edges. The second he’d stolen off an old film reel. It was grainy and black and white, but Bucky’s smile was gorgeous.

“I’m in trouble,” Clint told the dog, idly scratching at his ears. He brushed a thumb over the photo, across Bucky’s mouth and down his shoulders. The glimmer in his eye hadn’t changed at all. “I don’t know how I’m going to get out of it this time.”

The dog was watching him with big, solemn eyes, so Clint showed him the phone.

“Anything happens to me, you go to him,” he said. “He’ll take care of you. He knows how to handle guys who can’t stop picking fights.” 

The dog yawned.

\---

There was a redheaded girl sitting across from Bucky, and it wasn’t Natasha.

“They brought her in from Westchester,” Tony said, arms crossed. “Some kind of telepath, mutant, blah blah blah, the whole deal.”

“Sure,” Clint said, rotating his shoulder, stretching his neck from one side to the other. He ached all over, but Bucky looked less pale, and that was a better painkiller than anything he’d taken that morning. The metal arm was gone. Clint'd asked Tony about, and Tony had made a face and said 'finally' under his breath. “What’s she doing?” 

“Hell if I know,” Tony said. “You look terrible, by the way.”

“Love you too, Tony,” Clint replied, folding his arms over his chest and closing his eyes just for a moment. He felt dead on his feet. 

“I’m serious,” Tony said. “You look worse than him. What’ve you been doing?” 

“Eh, y’know,” Clint said, casting him a look that said shut up, plain and simple. “Don’t worry about it, Stark.”

He should’ve known better; like Tony had ever let anything go since he’d first put on the Iron Man suit. He frowned at Clint, turning to face him properly, and said, “No, don’t give me that.”

Clint tilted his head back, groaning. “What do you want me to say, Tony?” 

Tony just gave him a long, hard look before saying, “If you’re doing something stupid – and you’re obviously doing something stupid -- he won’t thank you for it. Take it from someone who’s been there before.”

“Tony, leave it,” Clint said. “I don’t want to hear it.”

Tony was quiet, for all of twenty seconds.

“I don’t want to give the team speech,” he said and Clint groaned, tipping his head forward until it met the cool glass. “But,” Tony said, raising his voice, “we _are_ a team so – if you need anything. Or if you’re doing anything monumentally stupid, which, look at you – we’re here. We’ll help.” 

Clint set his jaw and rolled his shoulders back, ignoring a new stab of pain. 

“Everything’s okay,” he said, headache a hundred times worse. “I got it, Tony. Really.”

“Right, because _I’ve_ never said that,” Tony said, and finally let the subject drop. 

No one moved inside the room. Not the redhead, and not Bucky. Both were still as statues; Clint stared hard until he could see the slight rise and fall of Bucky’s chest, before exhaling, reassured.

\---

Clint could’ve gone home, but he’d only end up taking the dog out for a walk. And then again, and again, until the dog started hiding from him whenever the leash came out. 

Clint figured you were probably in trouble when even the dog thought you had nothing to do. 

He kicked his feet up and dug out his phone. And maybe he nodded off, because next thing he knew there were voices out in the hall. The door was open an inch, and through it he could see Steve, looking tense and worried, staring at someone blocked by the door.

“Buck,” Steve said. “You’ve got to take it easy.”

Clint’s chest felt tight. 

“Leave it, Steve,” Bucky’s familiar voice said, bitter. “I’m going to go crazy if I stare at those walls anymore. It’s fine as long as you’re here to make sure I don’t lose it and kill a dozen or so SHIELD agents with a paperclip, right?” 

“It’s not like that,” Steve said. 

“It’s exactly like that,” Bucky shot back. 

Clint tipped his head back, closing his eyes. He didn’t mean to listen to the rest of the argument, but there was really no good way out of the room, not with the two of them in front of the door. He could always go out the window, he supposed, but he wasn’t quite ready to hit that level of rock bottom.

He must’ve nodded off again, because the next thing he knew there were warm fingertips at the inside of his elbow.

“Hey, wake up.”

Clint started, sitting straight up. Bucky rocked back on his heels, frowning at him with the sulky cat face. 

“You look terrible,” he said. 

“So everybody says,” Clint said, relaxing. He settled himself back down, pretending to stare up at the ceiling. Bucky was watching him with a certain wariness that struck something bitter in Clint’s chest. 

“What’re you doing here?” Bucky asked. 

“Sleeping, mostly,” Clint said, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Pretty sure I was here first, so.”

Bucky made a face, so Clint slid his hand over his eyes.

“Heard SHIELD was letting you wander around now?” he said. Bucky snorted.

“I didn’t go far,” he said. “Steve’s standing guard at the door, in case you’re worried. But I think I’m less of a risk than I was before.”

Clint took his hand away from his eyes, gaze falling on Bucky's empty left sleeve. "What happened?"

“Tech’s too old. I’ve been too hard on it,” he said with a lopsided smile. “Far as anyone can tell, last time I had an upgrade was sometime in the ‘70s. They wanted to take it ages ago, but you know, as long as I fought that, so did Steve.” He stopped, exhaling, and said, “I’m tired of fighting, and I’m tired of watching Steve try and fight for me.”

“I’m sorry,” Clint said. Bucky shrugged his right shoulder. 

“Don’t be. It hurt, it wasn’t working right. There were a million reasons to ditch it,” he said. “Now that I’ve won my small freedom, there’s some talk about getting me a new one. Hey, move over.”

“Though you didn’t want to see me anymore,” Clint grumbled, half-joking, but Bucky’s easy smile faded. “Shit,” Clint said. “I didn’t mean that. Just – I missed you.”

“How can you miss me,” Bucky asked, sitting down. “Half the time I look over, you’re hovering outside my room. You’re doing a hell of a job of listening to your elders.”

Clint didn’t have anything good to say to that. He closed his eyes – dumb idea, but what the hell, no dumber than anything else he’d done where Bucky was concerned – and focused on the feeling of having him close again. “How’s your head?”

“Fuzzy,” Bucky said. “But better. I… there’s a lot of memories. It’s – confusing. Bad. I don't know.” He laughed a little. “Not totally sure I’m here right now.”

Clint frowned, then shifted a little so they were pressed more closely together. That got him half a smile, so he swung his arm across the back of their chairs. Bucky didn't protest. 

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” Bucky returned, turning to meet his eyes. “You look _really_ terrible.”

“Yeah?” Clint said. “You look good.” 

It wasn’t a complete lie. Bucky’s hair was getting shaggy again and he’d lost weight, but some of the hollowness around his eyes was gone. 

“Sweet talk, huh?” Bucky said. He reached over and touched his thumb to Clint’s eyebrow, letting it rest on the crisscrossed bandages. Jessica’s latest info-gathering trip had ended with Clint getting a hit in the face, which was always fun. But she had their location now, so Clint couldn’t be too upset about it. “What’ve you been doing?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Clint said, and Bucky’s face darkened. “Hey,” he said, catching his hand. “I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

“Then don’t do anything stupid,” Bucky said.

\---

“If we’re going to do this,” Clint said that night at his apartment, “then we do it. We do it now.”

Jessica didn’t look up from where she was scratching the dog behind the ears. 

“Sure,” she said. “Let’s go hit the evil science lab at 2 AM with no prep and half a plan, Clint, that sounds fantastic.” She ducked her head low, scratching beneath the dog’s chin, crooning, “You got picked up by a dummy, boy. Yes, you did.” 

The dog panted happily.

“Do you want actually want my help, or do you just want to hang out with the dog?” Clint wondered aloud, wandering over to the fridge. “You know what I mean, Jessica. I can’t keep playing this waiting game.” 

“You’re a terrible secret agent, Clint,” she returned. She sat back in the chair, crosslegged, and brushed her hair from her face. “Why you’d even join SHIELD?”

“To meet ex-enemy agents, mostly,” he said, which earned him a sour look. He headed back to the table, covered in half-eaten Thai and stolen documents. 

“What brought this on?” Jessica asked. Clint shrugged, averting his eyes. Jessica had always had a way of getting the truth out of him, for better or worse. He’d have liked to blame it on the pheromones. 

“Saw Bucky today,” he said. 

“Oh my God, Clint,” she said, making a face. “He gets his head screwed on right for two seconds and you sleep with him?” 

“I didn’t!” Clint protested. “We just talked.” 

Jessica didn’t entirely look like she believed him, but she held her hands up and said, “Okay, you talked. So?”

Clint sat down, grabbing the bottle off the table, and rubbed at his face with his free hand. He tried to find a way to explain, but all he could think about was Bucky’s brittle smile, the way he’d curled in on himself in that motel and told Clint that it wasn’t him anymore, that it was the thing they’d made him. The resignation written all over his face. 

“They hurt him,” he said at last, slamming the bottle down on top of the files. “They don’t – they don’t get to do that.” 

“You want to hurt them back,” Jessica said, gently. 

“No, I –” he swallowed hard. “It’s not right. I want to make it _right_.” 

Jessica looked at him hard. 

“They hurt _me_ ,” she said, palm pressed flat to her chest. “I want to hurt _them_.”

Clint didn’t know what to say to that. Jessica didn’t, either, apparently, because she just grabbed the bottle from him and took a long swig, wiping her mouth off on the back of her hand. Her eyes looked huge and angry in the dim light of Clint’s kitchen. 

“How come you never told me before?” he asked at last. Jessica shrugged.

“Would _you_ have told you?” she asked, which, ouch. 

“Give me the bottle back,” he said, and when she passed it over, he added, “I don’t know. I was a jerk. Am. Jerkish.” He took a drink, rocking his free hand from side to side. Jessica snorted. 

“Sure,” she said. “But you’re an Avenger, too.” 

“Those two mutually exclusive now?” Clint asked, cracking a grin. “Because we might have to call Tony.” 

“Shut up,” Jessica said. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You could be an Avenger too,” Clint said. “You’ve got powers. Puts you a step ahead of me.” 

“Who said I want to be an Avenger?” Jessica asked. “I’d have to get a costume. Pick a name. It’d be a whole deal.”

“I saw the first draft of the Avengers Initiate, you know,” Clint said after a beat. “I know your name was originally on the table.”

Jessica snorted. “Because I exude pheromones and shoot bioelectricity out of my fingertips, not because I deserved it.” 

Privately, Clint was sure he didn’t deserve it either. But deserving it wasn’t the point of being an Avenger. 

“I think you’d be a great superhero,” he said. Jessica glanced up at him.

“Well,” she said after a second. “I probably couldn’t be worse than you, anyway.”

\---

“I got a dog.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. 

“I mean, I picked him up off the side of the road, basically,” Clint said. “He’s not really my dog. I just feed him. And he lives in my place.”

“Okay,” she said. “That sounds kind of like owning a dog.”

“He doesn’t even have a name,” Clint said. He fit an arrow to his bow and imagined, for one moment, some Department X scientist, a twisted old man who’d sunk his claws so deep into Bucky the scars would never go away. He let fly and it hit dead center. “He’s not my dog if he doesn’t have a name.” 

“Why are you telling me this now?” Natasha asked. 

Clint fit a second arrow to his bow, remembering the look on Bucky’s face, the way he’d said, _Seventy years._ Seventy years of programming and stasis, seventy years being passed around and used like a puppet. The second arrow split the first down the middle. 

“Maybe I just want someone to know,” he said. “In case I get mixed up in anything.” 

Natasha looked at him, head tilted to the side.

“Are you mixed up in anything?” she asked.

“I’m pleading the fifth,” he said. He grabbed another arrow, considered it, aimed just to the right of the first two.

“Does this have anything to do with why you’ve been spending so much time with Jessica Drew?” 

Clint grunted. Another arrow, directly to the left, but not as close as he’d have liked. Natasha’s comment had thrown him off. He could start over on a fresh target, maybe make a star. It might get a smile out of Natasha. “Guess it was stupid to think you wouldn’t notice.”

“Mm,” Natasha said. “Only a little. Clint, what are you doing?” 

He lowered his bow. “I’m sorry, Nat.”

She nodded, arms crossed, though the look on her face told him she wasn’t happy.

“You know, I’m not the only one who’s noticed you and Jessica spending so much time together,” she said lightly, changing the subject. “Half of SHIELD thinks you’re fucking.” 

That startled a laugh out of him. 

“We’re not,” he said. “I promise.” 

Natasha nodded. “Carol Danvers wants to break your face, but I know.”

“Bucky?” Clint prompted. Her face was impassive. His heart sank. “He’s gotta know I wouldn’t, Nat. Hell, I’m doing this –” he broke off, frustrated, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“James knows you’re not telling him something,” Natasha said. “You can see how that wouldn’t sit well with him.”

“I promise,” Clint said, “I’ll tell him everything, once this is over.” 

Natasha didn’t look impressed, but he pressed on anyway, “Nat, just. For whatever reason. If something happens to me. You’ll tell him, right?” He didn’t want to say it. 

“That you’ve got a dog back at your place that he can name whatever he wants?” Natasha filled in, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe you should tell him yourself.” 

“Maybe,” Clint said. Natasha sighed, infinitely tolerant, and reached up to brush something off his shoulder.

“I knew about the dog already,” she squeezed his shoulder. “You’ve had fur all over your clothes for ages.”

\---

Jessica made them run through the plan a hundred times. By the second day Clint could’ve wandered through the base with his eyes closed.

“Don’t do that,” Jessica said. “Eyes open, the whole time.”

Somewhere in the middle of it Clint looked up and realized Jessica was more or less living in his apartment. 

“Well, you’ve got a dog,” she said, like that explained everything. 

“It’s just ironic,” he said. He remembered a time when the thought of Jessica moving into his place would’ve sent him to the bottom of a bottle and, probably, the middle of a bar fight. 

“Did you know half of SHIELD thinks we’re fucking?” he asked, setting up a target across the room. The dog followed close on his heels. “C’mon, dog, no. Arrows aren’t frisbees.” 

“Did you _not_ know?” Jessica said. She whistled and the dog trotted over to her; she threw both arms around his neck so he wouldn’t go back over to Clint. “It’s kind of the obvious conclusion.” 

“Except for the part where you said you wouldn’t spit on me if I was on fire,” Clint said, lining up his shot. It hit the target dead center. 

The dog gave an encouraging bark.

“Except for that,” Jessica allowed.

\---

The morning before they put their plan in action, Carol Danvers tried to pound Clint’s door down with her fists. Clint, undercaffeinated on only his first cup of coffee, was briefly concerned about a Mole Man attack.

“Is Jessica here?” Carol demanded when Clint opened the door.

“Uh,” he said, which wasn’t the right answer if the way Carol narrowed her eyes had any say. Then the dog padded up to sit at his feet and Carol’s scowl melted right off.

“Aw, hey, puppy,” she said, getting down on the ground to take the dog’s face between her hands. The dog, like a traitor, proceeded to lick her all over her face. “Jessica was supposed to meet me for lunch.” 

Okay, so maybe morning was more like afternoon. 

“She’s not here,” Clint said. “She, y’know. Left.” 

Last Clint had seen Jessica she’d been asleep face down in HYDRA plans at his kitchen table. He’d draped a blanket over her shoulders and gone to bed, and when he’d gotten up she’d been gone with a note promising she’d be back. 

“She left,” Carol repeated, staring up suspiciously at him. She gave the dog one last pat and then drew herself up to her full height, crowding Clint back a step. “Listen up, Hawkeye. Jessica’s a big girl, and she can spend time her time with whoever she wants, but that doesn’t mean I have to _like_ it. Or you. I don’t know what she’s involved in, because she doesn’t _want_ to tell me, but, Barton, anything happens to her? I’m coming after _you_.”

“Look, just,” Clint said, “don’t kill me in front of my dog, okay?” 

Carol snorted and took a step back, tugging her jacket straight. 

“I’m watching you,” she said, complete with gesture. “Tell Jessica “hey” for me.” 

Clint watched her go, and then sagged against the doorframe, covering his face with one hand.

“I’m in so much trouble,” he said, mostly to himself. The dog headbutted his knee in solidarity.

\---

Clint made more coffee. He double and then triple-checked his weapons, going over each and every arrow. He took the dog for one last walk around the block, then filled his bowl up to the brim. He’d talked to a neighbor, a nice woman down the hall with two kids, and left a copy of the key with her, made sure she knew if he wasn’t back by the morning that the dog would need to go out.

He left the TV on for the dog, so he wouldn’t feel alone. 

Maybe that was stupid. The dog probably wouldn’t care. It made him feel better, at least.

Jessica came by at sunset.

“Ready?” she asked. 

“To do something stupid?” he said. “Always.” 

\---

“Carol stopped by my place this morning,” he said once they were on the road. “She was looking for you.” 

Jessica cast a suspicious look his way. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Clint said. “And I’m just wondering, y’know…”

She shot him a dark look. “Clint? This is another one of those things I’m not talking about with you.” 

“Okay, okay,” he said. “I was just asking.” 

Jessica was quiet for a long moment. Her hands were in tight around the steering wheel, the thin leather of her gloves straining over her knuckles. 

“I can’t think about it,” she said. “Not until this is over. I don’t want to be this person with her.” She paused, then added, “Well?” 

“Well, what?”

“Aren’t you going to say something?” she said. “Make some kind of dumb comment?”

He shrugged, then gave her his best wolf-whistle. 

“If that’s the best you can do, forget about it,” she grumbled, rolling her eyes.

It was dark by the time they got close, and nearly pitch black when they ditched the car. Like any good evil lair, half the thing was underground, which was how Clint ended up climbing through musty, abandoned tunnels in the middle of the night. Which, fine, what was that, roughly half his life right there?

“This is kind of familiar,” he said. “What was this, three years ago, California?”

“Don’t remind me,” Jessica said. “That was awful.” 

“C’mon, it wasn’t that bad,” Clint said. “We went to the beach.” 

“Sure,” Jessica said. “I got shot, you got sunburned. Fun for the whole family.” 

“See?” Clint said. “Good times. No alien invasions, no self-aware robots – just good, clean men with guns.”

“Only the one Soviet assassin,” Jessica reminded him. 

“Right, well,” Clint said with a pang. “Gotta be something good about now.” 

There was a door up ahead. It was locked, of course. Clint was fumbling for an exploding arrow when Jessica stepped forward, put her palm flat against the lock, and shocked it hard enough that it swung open, sizzling.

Clint stared.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” he said. 

“I don’t usually need to,” she said, “on account of the team with the fancy gadgets, or y’know, Black Widow.” 

Clint suddenly missed Natasha. He was used to slinking enemy bases with her. He didn’t have to try and guess what she was thinking, or what her next move would be. It was as comfortable between the two of them as diving headfirst into enemy territory with no backup and no extraction plan could be. 

He didn’t really know Jessica anymore, maybe hadn’t ever really known her, and that itched under his skin. 

The feeling was mutual, if the way she kept glancing at him out of the corner of her eye said anything. 

“It’s just a smash and burn,” Jessica said, her voice strangely soothing, and Clint wondered what he looked like. “We get in, we destroy everything, we leave. You go home to your dog.”

“Sure,” Clint said. “You go home to Captain Marvel.”

“Ugh,” Jessica said, rolling her eyes. “I knew you’d start.”

“I was waiting for a moment,” Clint said, only to have Jessica cut him off, slapping a hand over his mouth. 

“Shh,” she hissed, and he blinked, surprised, while she tugged them both back into the shadows. He heard it too, after a second: voices down below.

Jessica took her hand away.

“I thought you said it was pretty much empty,” Clint hissed. 

The place was far from empty. It wasn’t packed, either, but there were enough people with guns to make Clint feel less than great about the whole thing.

He really hoped the woman down the hall would keep her promise and feed the dog.

“Right,” Jessica said. “New plan. It’s the same as the old plan except we’re much, much quieter. Maybe we hit a few more people in the face.”

“I don’t really see how that's a new plan, Jess,” Clint said. At the moment they were in the shadows, but there was a back door with a huge hole in it and a base full of twitchy soldiers. “This is starting to look like one of _my_ plans. You’re the smart one, you come up with something better.” 

“Don’t be _stupid_ , look at this, obviously I’m not the smart one,” Jessica said, looking around like she was waiting for something to occur to her. She said, “We’ll just – we’ll leave, we’ll go back the way we came, if we go now –” 

“Or we call it in,” Clint said. Jessica stopped in her tracks, turning her huge dark eyes on him.

Then she relented and said, “Okay. Call it in.”

The look on her face said it was killing her. Clint remembered what she’d said – it wouldn’t be hers anymore.

“Look,” he said, making a decision. “You go. Make it as quick as you can. I’ll call, then I’ll be distraction guy.” 

Jessica was looking at him like he was crazy, so he said, “No, it’s fine, I’ve got enough arrows to keep them busy for a while. I’ll hide in some rafters, cause some chaos. You wreck everything. It’s your show, Jess.” 

One more split second hesitation, then she reached out and grabbed him around the wrist. 

“Don’t leave me here,” she said. 

“Promise,” he said. She nodded, and then she was gone. 

Which just left Clint, a quiver full of arrows and a base full of guys who would shoot him on first sight.  
Even with the call, it was still him and Jessica alone in a base until backup arrived. Angry backup. One way or another, some assassin was going to wear his guts for garters.

“It’s what you signed up for,” he said to himself, and counted down under his breath before pulling out an explosive arrow.

\---

Hide and seek plus explosions kept Clint busy for a while, but it wasn't a kind game. He was knocked down, low on arrows, singed and grazed and bleeding from a stab wound that had taken him completely by surprise.

(“Seriously?” he'd said, biting down against the pain. “Stone age much?” 

“Says the man with the bow and arrow,” was the reply, because apparently HYDRA was specializing in smartasses now.) 

So when he was cornered by two guys, he guessed he wasn't really surprised.

He swallowed the pain and hit the nearest guy in the face with his bow. He stumbled back, swearing, and Clint tried to move in, only to hear the familiar click of a gun.

“Drop it,” the second guy said. Clint uncurled his fingers slowly, watching, waiting for any opportunity, when a flash of motion from the gloom caught his eye.

There were three gunshots and then both agents were on the ground. Clint gaped for one moment, halfway convinced he’d hit that happy ‘convenient hallucination’ stage, and then he turned around.

Bucky was staring at the bodies with his head tilted to the side. The corner of his mouth pulled downwards and Clint’s breath caught in his throat. 

Then Bucky met Clint’s eyes and lowered his gun.

“Hey,” he said. Clint swore, viciously, and sank to the ground. He wrapped one hand around his injured side. Bucky dropped to his knees in front of him. 

“What’re you doing here?” he asked.

“Rescuing you,” Bucky said, simply, staring at Clint like he was stupid. "I've got him," he added a second later, and it took Clint a second to realize he was talking to someone over comms, and not to him.

“No, I meant – That was some fast backup.” 

“Not really,” Bucky said. “We were already on the way when you called. Can you stand?” Standing was a little tricky, but he managed it after a moment, especially after Bucky grabbed him by the elbow. “Captain Marvel wouldn’t take no for an answer,” he continued. “Said I had a duty to ‘save your stupid ass from yourself’.” 

Clint bit back a laugh that might’ve been a little hysterical; god, his side hurt. Bucky glanced at him, and the look on his face said he didn’t know whether to be mad or worried. “How’d Carol…?” 

“Agent Drew left her a letter,” Bucky said. 

“A letter,” Clint repeated. Probably would’ve been a good idea to do the same, if the iron tight grip Bucky had on his hand was any indication. Hindsight: 20/20. 

The hand around Clint’s wrist glinted silver, brighter and sleeker than he remembered. “Is that the new model?” 

“They had to rush. I think it’s a little off still,” Bucky said. “I remember being a better shot.” 

“Good enough for me,” Clint said, laughing under his breath. He stumbled, and for a second his knees buckled beneath him. “I think I need to stop for a sec, Buck.”

Bucky looked at him, brow furrowed, a look Clint couldn’t decipher on his face. “Soon, I promise. Just gotta keep going for now, okay?” 

He stumbled again and Bucky grabbed a handful of his shirt, trying to keep him upright, but their feet got tangled together and they both went down. Clint hissed, grinding his teeth against the pain.

Bucky’s hands were at his shoulders, trying to press him back against the wall. His hand slipped down to cover Clint’s, pressed against his side, and came away covered in blood. 

“I was really hoping that wasn’t yours,” he said. He slid his hand back over Clint’s, pressing down hard. Clint tried to tangle their fingers together only to have Bucky hiss a sharp warning at him.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he said. Bucky snorted. 

“Hey, yourself,” he said.

“Come to be my hero, Robocop?” Clint asked, eyes closing for just a second before Bucky shook him hard.

“Sure I did. When’d you get so stupid? Come on, get up, get up.”

Clint tried, but his knees felt like jell-o. “Sorry, soldier mine.”

“We need to get you back on your feet,” Bucky said. 

Getting back up wasn’t the hardest thing Clint had ever done, not by a longshot, but it felt like it in the moment. He grit his teeth and swore. The wall against his back was cool; he knocked the back of his head against it just so he could have a distraction.

“What’d I say?” Bucky demanded, hand tight over Clint’s, applying steady pressure. “I said, don’t get dead. You promised –”

“Thought you were maybe dying,” Clint said from between his teeth. “Would’ve promised to buy you a bridge in Brooklyn.” 

Bucky tipped his head forward to rest it briefly against Clint’s shoulder, and said, “Just need you to stop bleeding on me first.”

“Trying,” Clint said, and Bucky’s lips were a bloodless line, eyebrows drawing together. He patched him up as best as he could with next to no supplies, and with what Clint was sort of afraid was World War II-era medical knowledge. 

“What, no leeches?” Clint said from between clenched teeth.

“You deserve leeches,” Bucky muttered. “We need to get you out of here." 

“Wait,” Clint said, grabbing at Bucky’s shoulder. “I promised Jess. I have to go back for her.”

“Agent Drew?” Bucky said, frowning. 

“Yeah,” Clint said. “I said I wouldn’t leave her here.” 

There were footsteps in the distance; they both froze. Bucky reached for his gun while Clint, feeling clumsy and slow, made to grab an arrow. Bucky looked back at Clint.

“Stay here. Don’t die,” he said. 

“Oh, y’know,” Clint said, gritting his teeth. “Same to you.” 

Bucky gave his wrist a squeeze and then he was gone, creeping down the hallway like a shadow. Clint couldn’t pick out his footsteps, no matter how hard he listened. He’d been quiet before, but this was something else. It made his stomach flip, uneasy, and he tilted his head back and closed his eyes for a split second.

There was a bang, followed by a shout. Clint set his jaw and forced himself forward just in time to see Bucky fall into the hallway with three HYDRA agents fast on top of him. He kicked out, hitting one square in the chin. The blow sent him stumbling back into the second, but the third was good and Bucky was down on his back. Clint could see, now, what he was talking about, how the arm wasn’t calibrated perfectly. 

The shot was lined up before he could even think about it. 

He released and hit the HYDRA agent in the shoulder. Bucky twisted up, launching himself at the guy, and when it was over he nailed Clint with a look.

“Now whose aim sucks?” he asked. 

“In my defense, two minutes ago I was bleeding all over the place,” Clint said, leaning back against the wall. He jerked his head towards the hall on the left. “Last I saw Jessica, she was headed that way.” 

Bucky nodded, tightlipped and clearly unhappy, but he only pulled Clint’s arm over his shoulder and hauled him along.

\---

Clint heard the crackle of bio-electricity and the sound of breaking things long before Bucky kicked the door in.

The lab was in shambles, on fire, the whole nine yards – Jessica had wrecked it. She was down on the ground in the middle of a fight, screaming at Captain Marvel.

“You’re the one who left me a note, what was I _supposed_ to do?” Carol asked, spinning around and hitting a guy square in the face. “Just go, oh, okay, I guess Jessica’s dying alone on her suicide mission?” 

“It said don’t open before tomorrow!” Jessica shouted. “It said it _right there_ in the subject line!” 

“That’s why I opened it!” Carol shouted. Jessica let out a frustrated yell, zapping her opponent when he got too close. 

Clint let an arrow fly, striking the guy attempting to sneak up on Jessica, and she looked up, surprised, then shot him a quick “thanks.” 

“No problem,” he said. He lined up another shot, even as Bucky muttered “careful, careful,” at him.

“Look,” Jessica said, circling back to back with Carol. “Let’s not talk about this now, okay? You can yell at me later.”

“I promise I’m going to,” Carol said. “After we get out of here, you’re never going to hear the end of it. You’ll be catsitting for the next twenty years to make it up to me.”

“I’m going down there,” Bucky said, curling his hands on the railing. He shot Clint one last look, like he was expecting some kind of protest, but Clint only nodded.

“I’ve got you covered,” he said, reaching for another arrow. Bucky threw him that same unhappy look again, but only nodded tightly before vaulting himself over the railing and down into the fight. 

Every inch of Clint ached, exhausted, and he had to keep blinking the sweat out of his eyes. He kept his eyes on Bucky, unbelievable even with the imperfect new arm, and concentrated on picking off easy targets. He tried not to think about how his knees felt like jell-o or his brand new stab wound.

There was a soft thump from behind him, the sound of someone trying to make noise, and he turned to find Natasha crouched on the ground.

“Well,” she said, her face unimpressed. “You look like hell.” 

“So everybody tells me,” he said through his teeth. “Kind of beaten up here, Nat.” 

“That’s the least of your problems,” she said. “They started the self-destruct. Apparently the superheroes and the explosions spooked them. The whole building’s going to go up.”

They made it out with barely any time to spare – Carol was shouting, taking the front, and somewhere along the line Clint found himself sandwiched between Jessica and Natasha as they dragged him from the building, through the brand new missing wall Clint was going to credit to Iron Man. Bucky brought up the rear, and he was talking to someone – it took Clint a second to realize it was Steve.

“What’re you doing here?” he asked. 

“It’s a HYDRA base,” Steve said, like it was obvious. “I found ways to occupy myself.” 

There was a plane waiting for them just outside. 

“Whose is that?” Clint asked as Natasha and Jessica all but dragged him inside.

“Mine. Well, not technically,” Carol said. “But let's call it mine. Try not to bleed all over the seats.”

\---

Steve turned to him on the flight back, after Bruce (thankfully not green) had finished fussing over all his fun new wounds, and said, “I think we need to have another one of those teamwork talks, Hawkeye.”

Admittedly, that seemed fair. 

“Maybe after the real doctors sew me back up, Cap?” he said, and he got a nod and shoulder squeeze in reply. 

That left Jessica, sitting across from him, wearing Carol’s bomber jacket and looking lost. She had a couple of new bruises, and she held her right arm stiffly. He mustered up the strength to kick her ankle.

“How’re you doing?” Clint asked, voice low. She shot him an odd look.

“Better than you, from the looks of it,” she said. Then, relenting, she added, “Carol’s promised to kill me when we land.”

“Yeah?” Clint said. “Hey, c’mon. What’s with the face? We got your lab.” 

“I know,” she said, crossing her arms and huddling deeper into the jacket. “I just – I don’t know.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Every time I hit them, I think, this is it, but afterwards it never feels done.”

She looked to the side, and Clint followed her gaze until he found Bucky, staring back at him. He looked away a second later, turning to talk to Steve instead.

“He’s friendly,” Jessica said. 

“Yeah, well,” Clint said. “I think I fucked up, so. He tries to kill me, let him. Jess. I don’t think it’s ever going to feel done.”

She frowned, pulling up her collar. “I know. Doesn’t mean I can’t hate it.” 

“Look on the bright side,” he said. “You’re wearing the quarterback’s jacket.” 

She snorted, aiming a nasty kick at his ankle, and for a moment afterwards they were both quiet. There was only the hum of the engines and the soft murmur of Steve and Bucky’s conversation.

“Hey,” Clint said, and she looked up, surprised. “I never said it, right? I’m sorry.”

“Shut up, you’re not dying,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I told you, Barton. Leave it alone.”

“Still thought I should say it,” he said.

That earned him a raised eyebrow. A minute later, she said, “I did actually pick out a superhero name. Spider-Man’s going to hate me, but I’m pretty sure I can take him.”

“Yeah you can,” Clint said, grinning. “You’re going to be a great superhero. You need a costume.”

“You’re an injured man, so I’m going to let that go,” Jessica said. “But don’t push it.” 

Clint snickered to himself, but stopped when he heard approaching footsteps; he looked up and found Bucky staring down at him, wearing a face like he was trying to decide whether or not to hit Clint. 

“I’m going to go,” Jessica said, standing up, “see if Carol will let me backseat fly.”

Bucky watched her go with barely concealed wariness. Clint raised both eyebrows, and when Bucky looked back at him he only shrugged and said, “She’s pretty.” 

“It was a long time ago,” Clint groaned. “Who told you? Natasha?” 

“Captain Marvel spent some time yelling about you on the way over, actually,” Bucky said, taking Jessica’s abandoned seat. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees and fingers laced together. “SHIELD rumor mill’s been pretty busy, too.”

“Well, they’re all a bunch of liars,” Clint said. “Especially if they say anything about a chicken.”

“They say you’ve got a type,” Bucky said.

“A type?” Clint repeated, and then seized the first thing that came to mind. “Lanky brunettes with wicked jaws.” 

Bucky blinked, and then his expression softened. “I actually know that one.” 

“Well, _finally_ ,” Clint said, smiling. The smile he got back was a little unsure. 

“You know, I said what I said so you wouldn’t go get yourself killed,” he said at last, eyes falling towards Clint’s ripped uniform. “Not because of me.” 

“ _You_ didn’t stab me,” Clint said. Bucky gave him a flat look.

“Not on my behalf, either,” he said. “I can actually put two-and-two together, Clint. Next time you go on some half-cocked revenge mission over me, you could wait until I can join in.” 

“Gotcha,” Clint said. “Next revenge mission’s all yours.” 

It was the wrong thing to say; the slow, strange smile on Bucky’s face disappeared. His jaw was tight and he looked a little like he might get up and leave.

He tried to reach forward; his ribs screamed at him in protest. The motion drew Bucky’s eye, anyway, and he looked at Clint with that new tired watchfulness. 

“Hey, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m tired. And stabbed. It’s not an excuse, it’s just…”

“You’re tired and stabbed,” Bucky filled in for him, every line of him still tense. “I get it.” 

“I got a dog,” Clint said, suddenly. 

“What?” Bucky said.

“I got a dog,” Clint repeated. “I keep saying he’s not really mine, but. Pretty sure nobody believes me anyway. So, I got a dog, and if I died here, it, well. The dog was going to go to you.” 

Bucky stared at him, startled, confusion clear on his face. “You were going to leave me your dog,” he said, slowly. 

“Yeah,” Clint said. “I just – I don’t know. It seemed like the right thing to do.” 

Bucky nodded, eyes wide, and then all of a sudden he was laughing. 

“What?” Clint demanded. “C’mon, take pity on an injured man – what?”

But Bucky just shook his head and said, “You’re a real piece of work,” and that was all Clint could get out of him for the rest of the flight.

\---

There were medics on the ground, and Clint was left in their hands as soon as they landed. For once he was kind of glad; he sat back and let them work with a minimum of bitching. It probably had something to do with the way Bucky was looking at him, like he was trying to put the pieces of a puzzle together.

He waited until Clint was back in one piece, more or less, installed in a hospital room that for once he wasn’t looking for a way out of, and then, silently, he reached out and took Clint’s hand. 

“How’re you feeling?” Clint asked, feeling warm and fuzzy for reasons that were probably only half the good drugs. 

“I think I should be asking you that question,” Bucky said, running a cold metal thumb across Clint’s knuckles. Clint glanced at it, and when Bucky caught him looking he made to pull away. Clint grabbed his hand and held on. 

“Tough. I asked first.” 

That got him a smile, however exasperated. “What are you, twelve?” 

Clint breathed out, snickering a little, and then sobered up. “I should’ve asked before. I’m bad at this. You should probably know that.”

Bucky tipped his head to the side, eyes sweeping over Clint, considering. “I’m better. I think. My head’s not screwed on exactly right, but. We’re working on that. Programming’s gone.” He breathed out, eyes still fixed on their hands. “Everything I do now, I’m doing because of me.” 

“Yeah?” Clint said. “That’s good. That sounds like a win to me.”

Bucky shrugged. “Memory’s still a mess.”

“Ah, well,” Clint said, feeling pleasantly floaty as the painkillers began to really kick in. “Nobody’s perfect.” 

“Stop it,” Bucky said. “You know that one’s after my time, right?” 

“Eh, it’s old, you’re old,” Clint said, grinning when Bucky rolled his eyes. 

“ _Stop_ ,” he said, smiling. “I’m trying to talk to you.” 

“So talk,” Clint said, squeezing his hand. “I’m listening.” 

Bucky slid him a look, raising his eyebrows, and then he looked away, lapsing into silence. Clint nearly said something, but one look at Bucky’s face told him if he opened his mouth he’d never get any answers. So he waited, letting the pressure of Bucky’s fingers against his anchor him against the pull of sleep. 

Still, his eyelids felt heavy by the time Bucky spoke up. 

“I meant it when I said my head’s a mess,” he began, running his thumb across Clint’s bruised knuckles again. “And you’ve got the survival skills of a lemming. But I miss you.” 

“What’s to miss?” Clint asked. 

“You know, where I’m from, someone tells you they miss you, you’re supposed to tell them back,” Bucky said, wry, squeezing Clint’s hand just shy of painful. 

Personally, Clint thought that storming a HYDRA base with Jessica and no plan should have spoken for itself. Instead, he said, “I didn’t go anywhere.” 

“Yeah, well. It was a near thing,” Bucky said. “What I’m saying is -- we really only got the one date.”

“It was a good date, though,” Clint said, twisting his hand in Bucky’s so he could drag his thumb in slow circles across that metal palm. His eyes drifted shut.

“Roadtrip – that could’ve gone better,” Bucky said.

“There a point to this?” Clint asked. “Am I supposed to convince you that it’s not normally like this with me? Because I kind of got stabbed today. And the other week I got in a fight with the mob. A mob. So.” 

He cracked open one eye to find Bucky looking at him with raised eyebrows, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was fighting a smile. 

“Well, _that’s_ perfect,” he said, dry, and glanced down at their joined hands. “Steve’s driving me crazy. Thinks he needs to walk on eggshells.”

Clint snickered quietly to himself at the mental image. 

“And I heard you’ve got some dive apartment I’m going to hate,” Bucky continued, and then Clint couldn’t stop laughing. He was going to go ahead and blame it on the drugs, with a side of mild hysteria. 

“You laughing at me?” Bucky asked, wry, and Clint squeezed his hand tight before he let go. 

“Nope,” Clint said. “That sounds perfect.” 

“Good,” Bucky said, leaning back in his chair. He kicked his feet up on Clint’s bed, careful not to jostle him, and added, “I can’t believe you were going to leave me your dog.”

\---

A week later Bucky stepped through Clint’s apartment door with one measly bag slung over his shoulder.

“That’s it?” Clint asked. “That’s all your stuff?”

“I told you it wasn’t a lot,” Bucky said. When Clint went to take the bag from him he scowled over the top of it and said, “Which of us has the metal arm again?”

“C’mon, let me do the chivalrous thing,” Clint insisted, and after a brief tug-of-war Bucky apparently decided he was too mature to be fighting over luggage and let Clint lift it out of his arms. 

He set the bag down, and then it was just him and Bucky, standing in the middle of Clint’s scruffy apartment in the middle of the afternoon. Clint opened his mouth to say something, and came up blank. 

Bucky didn’t seem to notice; he was looking around, eyebrows arched. 

“You made it sound like there was a gaping hole in the roof,” he said. “Or a refrigerator box on the side of the highway.” 

“I just meant, it’s not Avengers Tower,” Clint said. “Obviously.”

“Natasha did say I was making a huge mistake,” Bucky said. 

“Oh, ouch, Natasha,” he said. “Traitor.” 

“Well, she did know me first,” Bucky said. He peered into the kitchen with interest. “I think this is bigger than Steve’s, actually.” 

“I actually cook, you know,” Clint protested. “I need it. It’s not just raw eggs and kale shakes around here.”

Bucky muttered something that Clint thought might’ve been “thank god.” He knelt down, whistling, and for a second Clint was confused until he realized the dog was under the kitchen table again. Under the table, and looking at Bucky like he was nuts. 

“Hey, boy,” Clint called. The dog’s ears perked up and he slunk, nails click-clacking across the floor, to Clint’s side. Clint bent down to pet him, then snapped his fingers and pointed Bucky’s way. “He’s a friend, got it?”

“Oh, a friend?” Bucky said, coming closer. He sat down on the floor across from them and held out a hand. Tentatively, the dog sniffed it. 

“I’m trying to ease him into it,” he said. Bucky raised an eyebrow, then leaned forward, wrapping one hand around the back of Clint’s neck. He kissed him.

The dog whined. 

“I think he gets the picture,” Bucky said. “What’s his name?” 

“Haven’t really gotten that far,” Clint confessed, scratching the back of his neck. Bucky gave him a flat look.

“You’ve had the dog how long?” he said. “What, you just called him ‘hey, you’, or--?”

“Dog, mostly,” Clint said sheepishly. He considered the dog for a moment, then said, “Okay. Lucky.”

“What?” Bucky said, laughing. “Lucky? That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?” 

“Yeah, well,” Clint said, looking at the dog, busy yawning and thumping his tail against the ground, and then at Bucky. Bucky, sitting on Clint’s kitchen floor, with his shiny new arm and a disbelieving grin on his face. “Maybe I’m feeling lucky.” 

“Wow, I really am making a terrible mistake,” Bucky said, with that one particular smile that always caught in Clint's chest. 

"Lucky for me," Clint said, leaning in to steal a kiss even as Bucky groaned.

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me on [tumblr!](http://traincat.tumblr.com)


End file.
